


all my best lies

by remedialpotions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fake Dating, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Half Blood Prince AU, Hogwarts Era, Mutual Pining, but like as close to canon as possible, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-01-14 20:19:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 71,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18483637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remedialpotions/pseuds/remedialpotions
Summary: In the summer before her sixth year, Hermione finds herself in sudden, desperate need of a date for a family event, and turns to Ron for a favor. But when one little lie spirals out of control, they both end up with so much more than they ever imagined.





	1. The One With The Phone Call

**Author's Note:**

> I was in a bout of serious writer’s block one night and decided to just switch gears and write something completely different. And this, the fake dating AU that nobody asked for, is what happened. Thanks to the lovely aloemilk for giving it a readsie and for the support. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Title borrowed from “Homemade Dynamite” by Lorde.

“Your aunt Carla rang us the other day,” said Mr. Granger, glancing over his shoulder at Hermione as he drove. “She wanted to know who you’ll be bringing as your guest to the wedding.”

“A guest?” Hermione repeated, bewildered. “Do I really need to bring a guest?”

“Well, of course, dear,” said Mrs. Granger from the passenger seat, as though Hermione was insane for even questioning it. “They’ve made arrangements for you to bring somebody, that’s why your invitation was addressed to you and a guest.”

“And how, exactly, would I know that?” Hermione poked a finger through the bars on Crookshanks’ basket and gave him a scratch behind the ears. “I’ve been away at school, I haven’t even seen it.”

“That isn’t their fault,” her mum replied, her tone even. “They sent out the invitations months ago. If you’d just come home at Christmas like we had planned-“

“I couldn’t!” Hermione blurted out, surprising herself with the force of her voice. But when she thought back to the first morning of the Christmas hols, waking up to learn Mr. Weasley had nearly died, the terror and anguish came roaring back as though it had happened yesterday. “I - it was exams,” she added, more calmly. “I had a lot of revision to do.”

“You’re not going to change it by arguing,” continued Mr. Granger with infuriating calm, deftly guiding the car through a roundabout. “They’re expecting you to bring someone. They’ve paid for the meal and there’s a place at the table and everything.”

“I don’t see why we can’t just tell them-“

“Of course we can’t just tell them,” said Mrs. Granger. “You know how your Aunt Carla is, and besides, it’s too late to change anything.”

Hermione’s face had gone a deep red, her unexpressed rage simmering just below the surface. So they had just gone and signed her up for bringing a date, not bothering to consult her, not bothering to consider that she only had two close friends, and both were wizards. Did they expect her to just conjure up a date out of thin air? 

From inside his basket, Crookshanks gave a low whine of dissatisfaction; he despised being confined - or perhaps he, like Hermione, had recognized the absolute absurdity of the situation.

The tidily manicured streets of suburban London whizzed by out the window, though Hermione barely registered it. The past school year had, by and large, been most akin to something out of her nightmares, and yet when she thought of Hogwarts, with its wild cliffs and dark, mysterious lake and infinite towers and turrets, she felt a sharp stab of homesickness. Isolation in the Muggle world was the last thing she needed.

“What about your friend Harry?” Mrs. Granger shifted in her seat to face Hermione more fully, a hopeful look on her face. “He’s a nice boy, you could invite him.”

Logically speaking, it wasn’t the worst idea. Harry had grown up around Muggles, so the likelihood of him slipping up and saying something he shouldn’t was quite low, and he’d likely have something to wear. The issue, of course, was the specific set of Muggles with whom he had to live, and Hermione doubted they would let him out of the house if they thought there was even the remotest chance that he might enjoy himself. These were people, after all, who had once sent him a single tissue for a Christmas gift. 

“I don’t think he’ll be able to go,” said Hermione slowly. “His aunt and uncle are, erm… really strict.”

“Well, then, you should bring Ron!” Mrs. Granger lit up at the very thought. “That would be just lovely, wouldn’t it? Oh, and he’s so tall.”

She nodded eagerly at this last point, an almost-manic look in her eyes. 

“Yes, so I’ve noticed.” She actually hadn’t stopped noticing, as much as she wished she could.

“I think that’s just perfect, I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before. Just ring him when we get home-“

“They don’t have a phone, Mum, remember?” An image sprang to mind of a table littered with dismantled rotary phones and spare cords in the Weasley family shed. “None that work, anyway.”

“Well, then, do whatever you have to do, honey, but the wedding is in less than two weeks.”

Hermione wasn’t concerned about her means of communication; it wouldn’t be long before Pigwidgeon or Hedwig came flying up to her family home. Harry had been expressly told that he needed to write regularly, if only assure his friends that he was not in immediate need to rescue, and it was usually only a matter of days before Ron scrawled out a letter detailing how boring life was at the Burrow and inviting her to stay. And given that Hermione thought that the Burrow was the absolute opposite of boring, she was always eager to take him up on the offer.

And if she wanted to do that again, she had better stay in her parents’ good graces.

“Fine,” said Hermione as Crookshanks rubbed the side of his face against her finger, a deep purr rumbling out of his furry throat. “I’ll invite him.”

•••

Upon waking, Hermione wasn’t immediately sure where she was. It was always like this on her first few nights back home, as though the shift from magical to Muggle life was still taking place. If she kept her eyes closed, she could pretend that she was not in London, that she could wake and head down to the common room and wait for Ron and Harry to join her for breakfast. But when she did, with reluctance, peel open her eyes, the crimson and gold of the Gryffindor dormitories had gone, replaced now by the gentle pastel tones in which her mum had decorated her room while she had been away. Rather than the soft breathing and occasional snore from her dormmates, the silence in the room told her that she was quite alone. 

Shoving back the duvet, Hermione swung her legs out of bed and stood, toes sinking into the plush carpet. Her parents would have already left for the dental practice, so she was on her own to fix breakfast, but she didn’t much mind. More time to herself meant more time to work out exactly how to approach inviting Ron to this wedding. How to present the situation as a positive, rather than asking him to come to an event where he would, in all likelihood, feel wildly out of place, where he would not know a single soul other than her, where he would have to lie about nearly every single detail about himself. 

There was no question that he would do it, but it was quite a lot to ask.

Just as she was considering finding her way to Diagon Alley so she could use the owl post office, there was a sharp tapping on her window. With a yowl, Crookshanks darted across the room and leapt nimbly onto the windowsill to swat his paw at the little owl hovering behind the glass. 

Hermione’s stomach flipped with excitement. Gently nudging the cat out of the way, she shoved the window up to allow Pigwidgeon inside. Tied to his leg was a scroll of parchment, sealed with a glob of red wax, though it took Hermione some effort to stop Pig from soaring animatedly around the room so that she could actually retrieve it. 

_ Dear Hermione, _

_ Hope you made it home safe. It’s already so boring here, the twins have moved out so it’s just me and Ginny. I asked her if she wanted to play Quidditch later today, and she said no because ‘it wouldn’t really be a challenge’ so that was a real confidence boost. But anyway, Harry’s going to be here in a couple weeks to spend the rest of the summer, I guess Dumbledore’s supposed to bring him, so you can come and stay anytime you want. And the sooner the better, because it seems like Mum’s just been saving up chores for when we got back and now, for some reason, the entire house needs to be deep-cleaned and if I have a visitor, maybe that’ll let me off the hook.  _

_ Or maybe not, but I can dream. Honestly, she’ll probably just recruit you for the chores too.  _

_ Also, Dad was saying that it would be best if you came shopping for school supplies with us and not your Mum and Dad, they’re worried about Diagon Alley not being safe for Muggles. He’s just been promoted and a lot of his new job has to do with fake Dark Magic protection things - like someone selling amulets in Diagon Alley that claim to protect you against the Avada Kedavra, but really it’s just like a clove of garlic and some cat hair or something barmy like that. It’s not like I think you’d ever fall for anything like that, but Diagon Alley really isn’t the same as it used to be. So I know you get excited about getting your books and things but please just wait and don’t go there without us.  _

_ And let me know when you can come to stay. _

_ Ron _

As Pigwidgeon dipped his beak into Crookshanks’ water bowl (which the latter watched with his yellow eyes narrowed in suspicion, the end of his bottlebrush tail twitching back and forth), Hermione grabbed a sheet of stationery and a ballpoint pen from her desk, perched on the edge of her chair, and let the words flow.

_ Dear Ron, _

_ I promise not to go into Diagon Alley. I’m also really glad you wrote to me, because I have a bit of a favor to ask you… _

Ten minutes later, Pigwidgeon was winging his way back into the sky, and Hermione’s heart was beating through her chest.

But she tried not to think about it as she fixed herself breakfast, and took her morning healing potions, and settled into the sofa with a book on centaur land rights that Madame Pince had let her bring home for the summer. The letter was out there in the world, on its way from London to Ottery St. Catchpole, and there was nothing she could do to change it now. And truly, what choice did she have? She had no friends from primary school with whom to reconnect, and clearly, where her parents were concerned, not bringing a guest to this wedding was a fate worse than death. 

Besides, if Ron was really as bored with life at the Burrow as he claimed, he would be happy for an excuse to escape. 

Around lunchtime, Hermione’s mum rang to check on her, as though she and Crookshanks might get up to mischief if left unsupervised. She answered all the usual questions about her morning, and said that no, she hadn’t heard back from Ron yet, but yes, she had asked already, and that owls were, most of the time, even faster than the Muggle post. After listening to a tale of a patient who had been born with an extra set of wisdom teeth, she hung up feeling thoroughly exhausted, and no sooner had she set the phone back down on the receiver than it jangled again. 

“Good afternoon, Granger residence,” she rattled off, leaning against the work surface and flipping idly through a catalog that had arrived in the post.

“Er - Hermione?”

She stood up straight.

“ _ Ron? _ ”

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes, of course I can hear you - where are you?”  _ Why are you using a phone?  _ is what she felt like asking, but she bit her tongue.

“I went into town with my mum, she needed to go to the apothecary. So, really, you can hear me?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, smiling in amusement at his disbelief. “Loud and clear.”

“Even if I do this?” His voice dropped to a dramatic whisper.

“Yes - that’s the whole point of a telephone, you can just talk normally.”

“This is  _ weird _ ,” he marveled. “That time I rang Harry, I was too busy getting told off to really think about it.”

Hermione laughed. It had only been a day, but it was still so good to hear his voice. “Did you get my letter?”

“Yeah, that’s why I had to find a phone. It’d really help if you could get your fireplace set up on the Floo Network, by the way-“

“My parents would never do that - come to that, I don’t know that the Ministry would even allow it.”

“They might,” he ventured. “We Flooed to Harry’s house that one time.”

“And that went  _ really _ well, as I recall-“

“Because his aunt and uncle are nutters, that wasn’t our fault-“

“Anyway, can you come? To the wedding, I mean?”

“Yeah, yeah, Mum said it was fine.” Relief at his words gushed through Hermione’s body. “But what do I do, like - what are Muggle weddings even like?”

“They’re not that much different from wizarding weddings,” Hermione assured him. “There’s a ceremony, dinner, dancing - it isn’t a big deal, except my parents apparently told my aunt that I would bring a guest so they’ve made arrangements for one and now it’s too late to change things so-“

“I know that,” said Ron, impatient, “but what am I supposed to wear?”

“Oh. Right.” 

Ron’s limited wardrobe of Muggle clothing consisted largely of hand-me-down denims, faded t-shirts, and hand-knitted jumpers with his initial on them - none of which was suitable for a country club wedding. Dress robes, naturally, were out of the question, and while Hermione was sure that her parents would gladly buy him a Muggle suit, given that this whole debacle was their idea, she was equally sure that Ron’s pride would never allow it.

“Well…” Hermione cast wildly about for a solution. “You could wear your school uniform trousers, couldn’t you? Those will work, and then you could borrow a dress shirt and tie from my dad-“

“From your  _ dad _ ?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

A cool, robotic voice came over the line.  _ “One minute remaining.” _

“I’ll look through Bill’s old closet,” said Ron, “maybe he left some things here. I’ve gotta go anyway, though, Mum’s waving at me-“

“That’s fine, go, we can figure the rest out by owl. And thank you,” she added sincerely, “you’re really saving me.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “S’no problem. See ya later.”

“Bye.” 

Slowly, Hermione set down the phone. Her cheeks had gone completely hot.


	2. The One Where Ron Supports Liverpool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone for all your comments and your excitement! It means the world. Thanks once again to aloemilk for being the best cheerleader I could ask for, and hope everyone likes this chapter!

“So, Ron.” Mr. Granger held up two nearly-indistinguishable neckties. “Which one do you like better?”

“Er-“ Wild-eyed, he glanced at Hermione, who could do no more than shrug. “Both are - are really nice,” he stammered. The tips of his ears had gone red. “Whichever one you want to let me wear is fine.”

“I like this one,” Mrs. Granger interjected, crossing the sitting room to take the paisley-patterned tie from her husband’s left hand. “See the blue in the design? It’ll bring out his eyes.” She held the tie up next to Ron’s rapidly-reddening face. “Don’t you agree, Hermione?”

“Definitely,” she said quickly, eager to speed along the process. She was the only one who noticed it, knowing him as well as she did, but the look on Ron’s face was a silent cry for help. “So we’re sorted, then?”

She lifted Crookshanks from her lap and stood up from the sofa.

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Granger, “we’ve got to pick a shirt too. Simon, dear, didn’t you say you had a few?”

Resigned, Hermione sat back down.

“Right.” Mr. Granger retrieved two dress shirt from a nearby armchair and held them up by the hangers.

Hermione looked at the shirts, then over at Ron - whose befuddlement was plain on his face - and then back at the shirts, which for all she could tell, were identical.

“They’re both good,” said Ron, his face burning bright behind his freckles. “Really, it’s nice of you to let me wear anything - I was gonna borrow from my brother but-“

“Nonsense, we’re happy to.” Mrs. Granger briefly made eye contact with Hermione. “Your arms are rather long, though, so we should just make sure that this won’t be too short on you.”

Armed with one of the shirts, she approached him and held it up against his torso. Running her fingers down the length of one sleeve, she made to hold it to his wrist, but then furrowed her brow, her gaze quite plainly on his bare forearms.

All of the blood drained from Hermione’s face.

“What happened to your arms?” Mrs. Granger asked gently, looking back up at Ron.

“Oh - that-“ Ron cleared his throat, eyes darting to the winding scars on his arms. “It’s from when we were-“

“In Potions class,” Hermione interrupted, her voice sounding strangely loud and hollow to her own ears. “Sometimes the potions, if you don’t make them exactly right, they can take on a little life of their own. Right, Ron?”

“Y-yeah,” he nodded hastily. “Yeah, just a little Potions mishap. No big deal.”

“It looks painful-“

“No, I’m fine, it doesn’t really hurt-“

“Anyway,” said Hermione over them, standing up again, “are we done? That one looks like it will fit just as well as anything else-“

“Yes, fine, go,” Mrs. Granger relented. “I’ll just put these things in the guest room for tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” said Ron, genuine gratitude in his voice, as Hermione marched up and dragged him away by the wrist.

“Come on, the ice cream place closes in an hour.”

Ron, escorted by his father, had arrived that evening just in time for dinner. Arthur had been positively beside himself with joy at this foray into Muggle living, and Hermione’s parents had very graciously obliged him, allowing him to admire the refrigerator and the coffee maker. When finally Ron’s embarrassment had reached a fever pitch, he issued his father out the door with a reminder to fetch him at noon on Sunday. “And I’m sure he won’t be late,” Ron had muttered, “he’s never seen a working microwave before.” That, combined with the equally mortifying experience of being treated like a mannequin, has cemented the belief in Hermione’s mind that a trip out in the fresh air was just what he needed.

Desserts containing actual sugar had always been an incredibly rare treat around the Granger household (though Mr. Granger had always pointed out that it was exactly the sort of thing keeping the family dental practice in business), but even Hermione’s earliest childhood memories consisted of family trips to the neighborhood ice cream parlor. As she and Ron embarked upon the minutes-long walk, the air outside was heavy and muggy despite the setting sun, and by the time they reached their destination, each was covered in a light sheen of sweat.

There was a brief, hushed, bickering fight over who would pay for the ice cream, Ron’s insistence that he had the Muggle money to cover it being shut down by Hermione’s reminder that he was doing her a huge favor by being there that weekend. Eventually, though, they settled themselves at a small wooden table at the back of the shop, Ron with two massive scoops of rocky road ice cream topped with hundreds-and-thousands and Hermione with a scoop of strawberry.

“So,” Ron began, matter-of-fact as he dug his spoon into his cup. “Why are you lying to them?”

“I’m not lying.”

Ron gave her a withering look. “Really, because I definitely didn’t get these-“ he held out an arm, freckled and fair, with angry red scars slicing across his skin- “from Potions class.”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “Look, I haven’t told them about what happened at the Ministry.”

“But didn’t Madame Pomfrey write your parents, when you were in the hospital wing? I thought that was a rule-“

“It is, but I told her they were in Australia and they wouldn’t get the letter until after term ended, so-“

“You little liar,” declared Ron, shaking his head in amazement around a bite of ice cream.

“I learned my lesson after second year, didn’t I? Between the Polyjuice and being Petrified, it was all they could talk about that whole summer.” She used the back of her spoon to smush the ice cream down in her cup. “They don’t understand what it’s like, so it’s best just not to tell them. It’s for their own good.”

Ron considered this as he licked marshmallow off of his spoon. “So what else don’t they know? Just so I don’t slip up again.”

“They don’t know that he’s back. Voldemort,” she clarified in a whisper as Ron’s eyes turned to saucers. “Well, what am I supposed to tell them? That an evil wizard is out to murder one of my best friends - oh, _and_ every witch and wizard that’s like me? They’d never let me go back to Hogwarts, and I need to be at Hogwarts.”

This last point, Ron conceded with a nod of his head. “So they don’t know about the DA.”

“No.”

“Or Umbridge.”

“No.”

“Or Cedric.”

“No.”

“What even is left to tell, then?”

“I told them that you and I made prefect,” she said, “and that Gryffindor won the Quidditch cup, and that I was studying very, very hard for the OWLs.”

“That’s all?”

“I was trying to only tell them good things. And you’d do the same thing,” she asserted, pointing her spoon at him, “only your entire family’s in the Order so there’s no avoiding it.”

He shoved a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I probably would.”

“I’m sorry my mum asked you about them - your scars,” said Hermione, now looking down into her cup of ice cream. “It was really rude.”

“S’alright,” he shrugged. “Don’t blame her, really. They’re pretty weird-looking.”

Hermione shook her head. “They just show that you’re brave.”

“That, or they show that I’m an idiot who summons cursed brains to himself and then almost gets strangled to death by them-“

“Ginny said you were hit by some kind of Confunding spell, though, it wasn’t your fault.”

The bell on the door to the parlor jingled as a mum with two little boys entered.

“We probably shouldn’t talk about this here,” Ron decided around another bite of ice cream. “This is so good, do you want to try some?”

He held out the cup, waving it enticingly at her.

“Why did you bother with getting hundreds-and-thousands?” asked Hermione. “They don’t even have a taste, they’re just extra, pointless sugar.”

“Hey.” He aimed his spoon at her in mock warning. “Sugar is never pointless. You take that back.”

“I do not take it back, they add nothing-“

“They add texture, here-“ He scooped up a giant glob of the ice cream and held it out to her. “Just try it. Please?”

Hermione accepted the spoon, and as she closed her lips around it, the thought rolled through her mind that Ron’s lips had just done this very same thing not a minute ago, that her mouth was touching a place his mouth had just touched - and that it had been his idea. The ice cream was cold and sticky and the frozen bits of sugar immediately wedged themselves into her back teeth.

“It’s good,” she said crisply, passing the spoon back, “but the hundreds-and-thousands do nothing.”

“You just like arguing.”

“And you don’t?”

He let out a boisterous laugh. “Exactly my point.”

•••

Hermione was already awake, dressed, and fixing tea when Ron padded into the Granger family kitchen, his hair sticking up at all ends, his pyjama bottoms skimming his ankles. “Mornin’,” he yawned, stretching his arms right up over his head. “Why’re you up so early?”

“It’s a morning wedding,” said Hermione, her eyes drawn to the point where his shirt had ridden up, a pale sliver of inexplicably freckled skin (when, she wondered, did it ever see sunlight?) peeking through. “It starts at eleven - surely I told you that.”

Ron yawned again, a large hand halfway covering his mouth.

“That is way too early in the day to get married.”

“They hadn’t actually asked for your opinion on it,” replied Hermione. “And you need to go get ready, we’re leaving in thirty minutes-“

“Shit.”

And he darted from the room.

To his credit, he reappeared exactly twenty-one minutes later, hair still damp from the shower, knotting his borrowed tie around his neck. By this point, Hermione had taken it upon herself to prepare several slices of toast, and as she looked up from spreading butter across one of them, Ron approached.

“Can you help me with this?” He held out the two ends of the tie. “It keeps getting twisted.”

Hermione nodded, set down the butter knife, and took the two strips of fabric between her fingers. As she looped the material around itself, she felt Ron’s warm blue gaze on her, steady and sincere, and her throat went oddly dry. He was standing so close, and he smelled of soap and fresh laundry, and it took all of the concentration she could muster just to tie the simplest of knots.

“There.” She gave it a little pat as he reached around her to snag a piece of toast. “Now, we need to work on your cover story.”

“Right, well, my plan is to talk to as few people as possible-“

“Which would be a good plan, but they’re still going to ask me a million questions about you and we need to be on the same page. So.”

“So.” Ron took a bite of toast and seated himself at the island counter. “What’s the story, then?”

“Most of my family think that I attend a boarding school in Scotland called Glenalmond College, so you’ll be a student there too.”

“Okay. Where am I from?”

“Ottery St. Catchpole.”

“But I actually _am_ from-“

“I know, but the fewer details we have to change, the better. There’s less chance of a slip-up that way. So you can still have five brothers and a sister, you can still play Keeper, it’s just that you play Keeper on the football team - do not mention Quidditch-“

“I won’t,” he replied, looking momentarily wounded. “But won’t they think it’s odd I came all the way from Devonshire for this?”

“Oh, no, they’ll love it - believe me, they think this is the social event of the century, they can’t imagine anyone wanting to miss out on it.”

“They sound lovely,” said Ron, deadpan around another bite of toast. “So I play football, then? Am I any good?”

“Of course you are - though, you should probably know a bit about football, since people might ask which team you support…”

The drive to the wedding ceremony was defined, primarily, by Mr. Granger detailing the intricacies of the English Premier League, including a long diatribe about how Liverpool were robbed of the championship this year and a worryingly brief explanation of the basic rules of the game. Ron had listened, wide-eyed and pale, looking like he didn’t even know where to begin asking questions.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione whispered as the car trundled up a long gravel drive. “If someone asks something you can’t answer, just fake a coughing fit and excuse yourself.”

Ron, though still a bit peaky, offered a weak smile in her direction. “Just don’t leave me unsupervised too long.”

•••

 

Those who wished to exercise some semblance of tact would describe Freya, the bride-to-be, as high maintenance; Hermione simply described her cousin as demanding. The wedding, naturally, reflected this particular personality trait, with ostentation as the theme of the day. Everywhere Hermione looked she saw roses contained in gilded vases, gold-dipped leaves lining the flower arch under which the ceremony would take place. The names _Freya and David_ had been etched into every possible surface: the chairs, the centerpieces, even the champagne flutes. Toward the front of the garden where the ceremony was to be held, a harpist was warming up. All guests had been given a heart-shaped plastic bottle of bubble solution, to be blown at the happy couple as they walked down the aisle.

“Okay,” Ron muttered into Hermione’s ear as they took their seats near the back of the garden. “This is a little different than, y’know, _our_ weddings.”

“This isn’t a normal one,” she replied in the same quiet tone. “They’re not usually this…” She trailed off, unable to find a kinder way to say ‘self-obsessed’.

“Wonder what Bill and Fleur’s’ll be like,” he mused, idly toying with the lid on the the bottle of bubbles.

Hermione’s head snapped around to face him. “They’re getting married?!”

“Haven’t I told you that?”

“ _No_ -“

“Right, well, it only just happened a couple days ago,” he said as he turned the bottle over and over in his hands, “but now she’s coming to stay, to start planning the wedding, and Mum’s not too happy - ahh, dammit.” The soapy liquid in the bottle had spilled out into his palm. “I’m gonna go wash all this off.”

He set the leaky bottle gingerly down on the ground and stood, edging out of the row of chairs. Hermione found herself watching him as he walked, the morning sunlight glinting off his vibrant hair, his stride long but just a little wary. He was trying to go unnoticed, to simply be a body in a chair at this event, but Hermione couldn’t see how that was even possible; every time he was around, her eyes were irresistibly drawn to him.

“Hermione!” The squeal from behind her snapped her out of her thoughts, and she turned to see her other cousin, Gemma, rushing toward her in a pink chiffon bridesmaid gown. “I’m so glad you made it,” said Gemma, enveloping Hermione in a tight hug and dropping into Ron’s empty chair. “When we didn’t see you at Christmas, I was worried you wouldn’t come-“

Hermione pasted a smile on her face. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“Was that your boyfriend?” asked Gemma, clearly relishing what she thought was hot gossip.

“Oh, no, he-“

“He’s adorable.” Gemma nodded in approval. “Love the freckles, and he’s so tall - where’d you meet him?”

“At Glenalmond, but he’s-“

“I’ve got to go - Freya just wanted me to check that all the guests were here - but I want to hear all about him later.” She smiled, grabbed Hermione in another crushing hug, and hurried away out of sight.

Hermione barely had time to process this whirlwind of events before her mother and father, having finally disentangled themselves from conversation with an elderly aunt, seated themselves beside her. Ron followed a second later, his lower lip pinched between his teeth, shoulders shaking.

“What’s so funny?”

“Muggle stuff,” he muttered. “You can’t just use towels to dry your hands, can you, you’ve got to have some mental contraption that shoots hot air out of the wall-“

“Oh, right, those, they’re meant to be more sanitary - though, there’s some debate on if that’s true-“

“Whatever they are, it scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry. So listen, I was just talking to-“

But then the harpist began to play Pachbel’s _Canon in D_ , and they could talk no more.

•••

The cocktail reception was held on an enormous deck overlooking the golf course. As the newlyweds were photographed to excess in front of every possible backdrop, the guests were given flutes of expensive champagne, drams of whiskey, goblets of rich red wine, and tall, slender glasses of fizzy drink. Hermione took hers, not bothering to sip it, and dragged Ron by the arm to the far corner of the deck.

“So my cousin thinks we’re dating,” she declared without preamble.

Ron froze mid-sip. “She does? Why does she think that?”

“Well, maybe because we came together to this thing-“ 

“Didn’t they basically force you to bring a guest?”

“Yes, but - I don’t know, I think she just assumed and then she ran off before I could correct her. So, I suppose tonight you’re my boyfriend.”

 _Boyfriend_. The word sounded odd and foreign as she spoke it. It wasn’t a trait she normally attributed to herself - the concept of coupledom, of being one half of a whole - and while unfamiliar, it also didn’t sound awful.

“Oh, I am, am I?” Ron took a long sip of his drink through a skinny plastic straw, though his eyes on her never wavered.

“It’s just - it’s embarrassing otherwise,” she confessed, watching his gaze soften. “You don’t understand what these people are like. By now she’ll have told Freya, and Freya will tell my aunt Carla, and she’ll tell-“

There was a clacking of heels on solid wood as Hermione’s mum approached, a flute of champagne in her hand and an expression of sheer glee on her face. Hermione’s heart sank; word traveled too quickly in her family.

“I can’t believe the two of you,” she said, grabbing Ron and Hermione each by an arm. “How long have you been keeping this a secret?” 

“Er-“ Hermione shot Ron a look of horror. “Not long.” 

“I don’t know why you thought you couldn’t tell us, sweetheart, of course your father and I would approve - well, it just makes perfect sense.” Mrs. Granger beamed at them, patting Ron on the upper arm. “So when did this start?”

“At the end of term,” said Ron smoothly, taking a casual sip of fizzy drink. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, we just thought-“

“That’s all right, dear. Well, I’ll leave you be, I’m sure you’ll want to spend time together.”

And she was gone a second later.

Heavy silence fell over Hermione and Ron so that all she could hear was the thudding of her own heart in her ear; even the jazz band playing on the opposite side of the deck had gone distant and fuzzy.

“She just seemed really happy,” said Ron quietly. “I didn’t want to burst her bubble.”

With an odd pang that she couldn’t quite identify, Hermione agreed. “It’ll just be for tonight,” she repeated. “And we don’t have to go snogging all over the place or anything. Maybe we just… hold hands every so often, and dance to a couple of slow songs… and let people think what they want. And in a couple weeks I’ll tell my parents that we decided to just be friends, and we never have to talk about it again.”

“Okay,” said Ron, swallowing thickly. “Yeah, it’s not a big deal. I’ll just - y’know - I could do something like this.”

He set his glass down on the thick wooden railing of the deck and wrapped his arm around Hermione’s shoulders.

“This alright?” he whispered. His trembling hand curved around her bare upper arm, fingers just lightly squeezing. 

“Y-yeah,” she managed with a hasty nod, her stomach shaking with nerves. “And - what if I-“ She leaned against him, finding that her head nestled perfectly into his chest.

“Perfect.” Ron’s face, she saw as she looked up at him, had gone its signature shade of beetroot. “They - they’ll definitely believe it.”

 _It’s just for tonight_. There was no sense in over-analyzing it or considering too closely just how nice it was to snuggle against him, because none of it meant anything. It was just a means to an end, and it was just for one night.

“Oh my God.”

Hermione looked up, jostling Ron’s arm a bit, to see a tall, willowy girl hurrying up to them, her dark hair brushed back into an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck. And for a moment, because she was so out of context - and because her brain was so overloaded from the events of the evening - Hermione couldn’t quite place her, and then just as quickly, it clicked into place.

“Lisa!” Hermione beckoned her over, looking up at Ron in astonishment. Her Ravenclaw classmate hurried over, looking quite stunned herself. “What are you doing here?”

“My mum and David’s mum are best friends - how-“

“Freya’s my cousin - oh, you know Ron, right?” asked Hermione, realizing his arm still hung around her shoulders. “Ron, this is Lisa Turpin - we have Arithmancy class together.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” he said, though Hermione wasn’t sure they’d ever interacted before. “I can’t believe there’s another person from - from school here.”

“We probably shouldn't be seen talking,” Hermione decided as Ron hugged her a little closer. “It’ll be hard to explain how we know each other.”

“Yeah, that’s true - okay, well, I’ll see you both in September, then!” 

She smiled cheerfully and casually sidled away, though not before giving Ron’s hand on Hermione’s arm a final, curious look.

•••

“Yeah, I support Liverpool,” Ron said, poking his fork into the slice of cake before him. “Really, we were robbed of that championship - I know we had some injuries, but it shouldn’t‘ve held us back the way it did.”

Hermione bit back a smile as her uncle Ned nodded sympathetically. “It was a tough season,” he agreed. “And to see Man United win again-“

“United buy their championships,” said Ron, echoing word-for-word Mr. Granger’s words from earlier that morning.

“Exactly!” Uncle Ned leaned across the table to smile conspiratorially at Hermione. “You’ve got yourself a good one here.”

“Thanks,” she replied before deciding to go for the gold, and adding, “I think so too.”

Watching Ron play the role of Muggle over the course of the evening had been nothing short of fascinating. Hermione’s entire family had been, understandably, curious about this mysterious new boy that she had brought home from boarding school, and he had fielded questions like a consummate professional. Only once had he had to fake a coughing fit, when a conversation about cars had taken place during dinner, because he couldn’t exactly admit that his only driving experience was with a flying Ford Anglia - and that it had gone terribly awry. Now, with the cake having been cut and the reception in full swing, Hermione had finally begun to relax. They were almost there. The wedding would end, and Ron would go home tomorrow, and life would return to normal.

“And now, Ron, you play Keeper yourself, is that right?”

“I do, yeah,” he nodded, eyes darting over to Hermione. “Just, y’know - blocking those goals.”

Hermione quickly turned her laugh into a cough.

“You’ve got such long arms, I’m sure that helps,” said Uncle Ned.

“He’s really good,” Hermione chimed in. “He won the championship for the house team this past year.”

“It wasn’t just me-“

“Oh, don’t be modest.” She placed a hand on his arm. “They couldn’t have done it without you. Now come on, let’s dance, I love this song.”

Ron’s eyes cast down to the plate before him. “But - cake-“

“It’ll still be there, now come _on_.”

Hermione stood and tugged him out of his chair toward the dance floor. As the night had worn on, the guests had come increasingly more inebriated, and the dancing had become that much more embarrassing to witness. Still, she reasoned, it was what teenage girls did with their boyfriends: they danced to cheesy ballads.

“Just put your hands on my waist,” she said under her breath as they found a place on the floor. She spun on her feet to face him and placed her arms around his neck. A few strands of his hair tickled the backs of her fingers. “Ron.”

“Right.”

His quaking hands landed onto her waist a second later, burning against her, even through the fabric of her dress.

“All right,” she breathed; her voice had escaped her. “Good.”

Even in the dim lighting of the reception hall, Ron’s face had gone completely red. “So now what?”

“I - I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “I think we just sort of sway, a little bit. It doesn’t matter.”

And so they did, commencing the classic dance technique employed by teenage couples everywhere, shifting side to side without ever really moving. Hermione fixed her eyes on a patch of Ron’s shirt, unable to look at him; a flush was spreading throughout her entire body. Everything else seemed secondary: the music, the other guests, even the fact that this was all for show. Ron’s breath fell onto her ear and one of his hands shifted onto her back and she’d never been this close to him, not for this long. 

“Hey,” he said softly, grabbing her attention. “You said you loved this song?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I was just trying to save you from talking about football.”

“It's all right.” The smile on Ron’s face was soft, tender. “It’s kinda been fun being ‘Ron the Muggle’ for a day.”

“Then I’m glad you had fun.” 

The gap between their bodies had closed almost to imperceptibility.

“I wasn’t going to make fun of you if you really did like it, but what _is_ this song?”

“Celine Dion,” said Hermione. “She’s basically Celestina Warbeck for Muggles.”

Ron groaned and let his forehead drop onto the crown of Hermione’s head. “Merlin save me.”

•••

Mr. and Mrs. Granger, polite and generous as they were, had made the fatal mistake of agreeing when Arthur Weasley asked if he could see their dental tool kits. Having arrived exactly at noon on Sunday to fetch his son, it was now well past one in the afternoon, and his enthusiasm and interest had not waned. Hermione and Ron, however, very quickly lost the patience that the Grangers still appeared to possess, and had escaped almost immediately to the sitting room. 

“They can kick us out anytime, you know,” said Ron as he stretched his legs out across the ottoman. “I’m sure he’s driving them mental.”

Hermione waved a hand in dismissal. “I wouldn’t worry about it, my parents really like your parents.”

“I s’pose.” He didn’t exactly look convinced.

“And besides, you kind of did us a huge favor this weekend, so I’m sure they don’t mind.”

Sitting up straight, Ron tucked one sock-covered foot under the other knee. “Was it really that big a deal, you needing to bring someone?”

“It’s just the way my family works,” she explained. “They ask things of you, but it’s never really asking, it’s more that they’re telling you what to do. And I’m already…” She sighed. “I’m already the one who’s different from everyone else, and they don’t even know about the magic, I’ve just never fit in with them.”

“But you’ve never cared what people think about you.” 

“I don’t, but-“ She jerked her head in the general direction of the kitchen, where Arthur and the Grangers were still engaged in conversation. “It makes it easier for them, I think. And you really did help. You were a hit,” she added with a little laugh. “I think Uncle Ned was ready to adopt you.”

Ron chuckled, eyes crinkling in the corners. “It was sort of nice to support a team that isn’t always at the bottom of the league for once. And it was fun to be your fake boyfriend for a day.”

 _Fake boyfriend_. It hadn’t even been real, yet it still felt like something was coming to an end.

“Well - thank you. It meant a lot to me.”

“Anytime.”

Mr. Weasley’ kind, bespectacled face peered around the doorway. “Ready to go?”

Clapping his hands on his knees, Ron rose to his feet. “Yeah, been ready - you’re the one holding us up, actually-“

“All right, point taken.”

The goodbyes were quick - arrangements had already been made for Hermione to visit the Burrow the following weekend - and then Ron gathered up his rucksack as he and his father headed toward the door.

“Dad,” Ron was saying as Hermione watched the pair of them make their way down the walk, “I’ve got to tell you about these automatic hand dryer things-“

“Automatic hand dryers?”

“It’s what they have instead of towels - it’s completely mental…”

And Hermione really thought that would be the end of it.


	3. The One Where Everyone Finds Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this fic has been really exciting! I hope you guys like this chapter too!

_ Martin Miggs _ comics were simply not the sort of thing that remained relevant over time. Eight or nine years ago, they had provided hours of entertainment to a pre-adolescent Ron, but looking at them now - as he attempted to sort through the stacks of rubbish that had accumulated in his bedroom over his sixteen years of life - he could think of countless better ways to spend his time. Like taking a crash course on Muggle football, or figuring out how those automatic hand dryers worked (where did the air come from, and how did they make it so hot?). Or dancing with Hermione. 

It was all he’d thought about in the past week, dancing with her, her little waist cradled in his overlarge hands, the scent of her hair in his nose and her laughter in his ear. He hadn’t imagined it, how much fun they’d had, how good it had felt to hold her in his arms and wrap his arm casually around her whenever the whim occurred to him. It had felt like he had disappeared into a different world where he didn’t have any of the trappings and baggage of his real life. He had just been Ron: footballer, Liverpool supporter (but he would have to investigate this particular trait; he wasn’t sure he could support a team that won all the time, even in a fabricated persona), and Hermione’s boyfriend. And he had liked that person. That Ron, he thought, had the guts to go for what he wanted.

She had seen last weekend as a favor, as a friendly sacrifice on his part - she had thanked him for it probably a thousand times - but it had been one of the best of his life. And what if he just came out and told her that? He had an entire day with her before Harry’s arrival, after all. What if he explained that the entire time they had been putting on a show for her family, he had been wishing desperately for it to be real? That he had been wishing for that - despite his best attempts at denial - for months now, if not years? There was nothing stopping him, save the paralyzing terror of rejection and the possible breakdown of one of the most meaningful relationships in his life, not to mention the subsequent awkwardness it might cause with Harry - no. No, it was madness to tell her. He would just have to happy with the memories he had.

A knock sounded at the door.

“I’m cleaning, I swear!” he yelled back, shoving a stack of old comics into the bin. 

“It’s me,” came Ginny’s voice from the other side. “Open up.” 

Ron reached out an arm to turn the knob, letting the door swing open, and in strode Ginny with a scroll of parchment clutched in her hand.

“What’s up?” asked Ron, standing up and raking his fingers through his sweaty hair.

“I don’t know,” said Ginny, brows raised inquisitively at him. “You tell me.”

Ron narrowed his eyes at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

“Er - no.” 

“Really.” Ginny stepped further into the room and unfurled the parchment in her hand. “Because I was very interested to read  _ this _ -“ She indicated a passage about halfway down the page- “in my latest letter from Luna.”

Ron had to squint to make out the words; Luna had the tiniest handwriting he had ever seen. There was talk of plimpy fishing with her father, and new research on the existence of Crumple-Horned Snorcacks on the Isle of Mann, and then, finally, he came upon the words of interest.

_ I saw Lisa Turpin yesterday at our Ravenclaw summer book club meeting.  _

Ron’s heart skipped a beat.

_ She told me she was surprised to learn that your brother Ron and Hermione Granger have recently become romantically involved. I don’t find the news very surprising, myself, and I don’t think you will either… _

“Well?” asked Ginny, tossing the parchment onto the ground. “Since when are you and Hermione dating?”

“I bet she’d love to join this book club Luna’s talking about,” said Ron airily, kneeling back down before the piles of comic books again, praying she could not tell that his heart was now hammering wildly in his throat. “D’you reckon they’re pretty strict about it being Ravenclaws only?”

He didn’t know why he deflected the question instead of coming clean. There was just something about looking his sister in the eye and telling her that they’d only been pretending to be a couple that made his stomach turn. He didn’t know what sort of people actually did a thing like that, but he knew it wasn’t exactly a point of pride.

“Oh my God, you are!” Ginny goggled at him, delight glowing in her widened eyes. “I can’t believe it, when did this happen? Tell me  _ everything _ -“

“This actually isn’t any of your business-“

“Oh my God,” she repeated, low and awestruck this time. “I mean, I always knew you liked her, but-“

“Get out,” said Ron as he pointed a finger at the door.

Ginny began backing out, albeit very slowly. “What does Harry think about all of this?”

“I said, get  _ out _ -“

“Won’t it be weird for him,” her face was just peeking around the door jamb now, “to be a third wheel to you two now?”

“Go away!”

“What if you break up?” hollered Ginny from the hallway. “Would you still stay friends?”

“Shut up!”

Ron was just getting up to slam his door shut when more footsteps pounded up the stairs, and he emerged from his room to see Bill appear on the landing outside of the master bedroom.

“What’re you two screaming about?” he asked in annoyance. “Fleur is trying to get some work done, keep it down-“

“Ron’s dating Hermione,” replied Ginny in a cheerful singsong, perching on the banister just outside of the twins’ old room. 

Bill whirled around, wearing the same expression of intrigue as his sister. “Really?”

Ron bristled at this. “Okay, it’s actually insulting how surprised you all are-“

“Do Mum and Dad know?” asked Ginny, sharing a mischievous glance with her eldest brother.

Bill grinned. “I think they’re about to.”

And as the two of them barreled down the winding staircase, their laughter and excited chatter bouncing off of the walls, Ron sank down to the faded carpet. 

Hermione was due to arrive in less than an hour.

“ _ Fuck _ .”

•••

The fireplace erupted in a whirl of acid-green flames, and Mr. Weasley stepped out first, wiping soot from his glasses, followed closely by Hermione. In the instant that her feet landed on the carpet, Ron leapt up to the sofa and nearly ran over to her to envelop her in a crushing hug. Which - not that he’d never wanted to - was not the way he usually greeted her after a week apart.

“Just go with it,” he muttered into her ear, still holding her body against his and finding that she was squeezing him just as tightly back. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, now loudly enough to be overheard by his father. “I really missed you.”

Hermione loosened her grip on him and tipped her face up to make eye contact. Her face was a carefully blank slate. 

“I missed you too.”

“Here, let’s bring your things up to Ginny’s room.” He released her from the hug and bent to pick up her trunk, which sat among a pile of half-charred logs in the hearth. “Merlin, what’d you pack in here? Bludgers?”

“Yes, Ron, Bludgers,” she quipped back as he dragged the trunk toward the stairs. “That’s exactly what I thought I’d bring for a six-week stay. Quidditch equipment.”

He tossed a smile at her over his shoulder as he hoisted the trunk (which really was heavy, but he already knew it was mostly books) up the first set of stairs, though only one tidbit of information was sticking in his brain. Six weeks. Six weeks of seeing Hermione every single day, without things like homework and classes and illegal defense clubs getting in the way. Six weeks of pretending, again, that she was his girlfriend.

Honestly, there were worse ways to spend a summer.

He managed to only knock the trunk against the steps a few times on the way to Ginny’s room, which was blessedly empty, its usual occupant having gone to the orchard to practice Quidditch. Letting the trunk thud to the floor beside Hermione’s camp bed, Ron reached around her to push the door shut.

“So, Lisa Turpin talks.”

Clearly, whatever Hermione had been expecting to hear, it wasn’t this. “What?”

“Luna sent some letter to Ginny - maybe it’s in here somewhere-“ But a quick scan of the small, tidy room yielded no results, and Ron thought it best not to start digging through Ginny’s things. “All right, well, anyway, I guess the Ravenclaws have some sort of summer book club-“

Hermione’s face lit up. “A book club? Do you think they’d let a Gryffindor join, or is it only for-“

“ _ Focus _ -“

“Right, sorry.” Hermione shook her head as though snapping herself out of a daze. “So what happened?”

“So apparently Lisa and Luna are both in this club, and Lisa told her that you and I are - well - I mean she was at the wedding, so she probably made the same assumption as everyone else - so I guess she told Luna and Luna wrote to Ginny about it, and then Ginny asked me, and I…” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t exactly deny it.”

She released a long-suffering sigh. “So Ginny thinks we’re a couple too, now, is what you’re saying?”

“And Bill,” Ron confessed. “So, then, probably Fleur, too. And my mum - and honestly at that point, it’s only a matter of time before it makes it to the twins-“

The mere thought of the twins finding out the truth sent a cold flood of adrenaline through Ron’s entire body. He would never, ever, ever live it down. 

“All right, all right, point taken.” 

She folded her arms across her chest, one knee bouncing as she regarding him with that piercing gaze of hers. 

“I’m sorry,” he felt compelled to add. “I know I should have just told her the truth, but I mean, honestly, it’s so ridiculous, who pretends to date? Who  _ does  _ that?”

“We do, apparently.” She threw her hands up in resignation. “So we’re back together, then.”

“Just like that?”

“We’ll have our amicable breakup as soon as we get back to Hogwarts,” Hermione decided. “And that’ll be the end of it.”

“You really want to shine this on for six more weeks?”

He regretted the words the second they left his mouth. Of course he didn’t mind the charade, or letting it stretch on as long as possible, but he didn’t necessarily want her to realize just how long they’d be faking this, or she might truncate it somehow.

“It would be too weird if we ‘broke up’ while I’m still staying here,” she reasoned with a little shrug. “And anyway, my mum hasn’t been able to stop talking about you for the past week, so it’s not the worst thing if it goes on a little longer. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, I suppose.”

“All right,” he nodded hastily. “But y’know, Harry’s supposed to be here tomorrow morning.”

“Right. Harry.”

Hermione sat down on the camp bed, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers sinking into her hair. The sunlight streaming in through the window cast her in sharp relief, illuminating the little flyaway hairs that popped up like a halo around the crown of her head and highlighting the caramel streaks in her thick, bushy locks. He let himself watch her; they were, after all, posing as a couple once again, so there couldn’t actually be any harm in it. And if she caught him staring, well, it was just practice, wasn’t it?

“We can’t tell him,” said Hermione in a low, rough voice. “He… he has to think it’s real.”

A weight dropped into Ron’s stomach at the thought. “You want to lie to Harry?”

“I don’t like it either.” Distress was written all over her face as she looked up at him. “And we’ll tell him the truth eventually, once it’s all over, but what if he slips up and says something to someone?”

“We have to come clean to him eventually though,” said Ron firmly. “Harry and I don’t have secrets. We just don’t.”

“And you won’t,” she agreed, just as firmly. “It’s only six weeks - and I’m sure he’ll think it’s funny once we tell him-“

“I’m sure he’ll think we’re touched in the head, actually.”

There was a forceful knock on the door. “Hey!” called Ginny’s voice. “Find somewhere else to snog, will you?”

“One minute,” Hermione yelled back as she got to her feet and approached Ron. Her voice dropped to an almost undetectable whisper. “One more thing, though?”

“Yeah?”

“I-“ Her eyes darted anxiously over to the door. “I don’t think we should kiss at all.”

Ginny’s voice, aggravated now, sounded through the door. “You have your  _ own room _ , Ron-“

“One second!” he shouted back, before resuming the same clandestine whisper as Hermione. “Not at all?”

“We clearly didn’t need to kiss to be convincing,” said Hermione, “and I think if we do, it might take this to sort of a weird place. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Ron had never before experienced such a combination of disappointment and relief. Because as much as he wanted to kiss her - as much as he had thought about it more than was reasonable - if he was going to kiss her, he wanted it to be for real. 

“None of this is a good idea,” he reminded her, cringing as Ginny pounded on the door again, “but I know what you mean. So it’s a deal, then, yeah?”

“It’s a deal.” She pursed her lips, regarding him. “It probably should look like we were snogging, though.” She stood on tiptoe and plunged a hand into his hair, tousling it into disarray. Chills broke out all over his skin. “That’ll do, now come on.”

Stunned into compliance, Ron found himself being pulled from the room by a hand past a half-disgusted, half-amazed Ginny.

“Sorry,” said Hermione brightly. “We’ll get out of your way. You've got a good point, though, Ron  _ does  _ have his own room.”

And with Ron in tow, she hurried up the stairs.

•••

“Ron?” Mr. Weasley’s head poked out of the doorway to the master bedroom. “Would you come in here for a minute?”

At the sound of his father’s voice, Ron paused on the landing outside of the bathroom. Having spent the night tossing and turning, deliberating how best to deal with Harry’s impending arrival in light of the current predicament, his head felt fuzzy, his thoughts clunky and disjointed. 

“Yeah,” he muttered, pressing the heels of his hands briefly against his eyeballs. On bare feet, he ascended the rickety staircase and stepped into his parents’ bedroom. Like all the other rooms in the house, it was modest and timeworn, but neat, a lantern set on the bedside table, the sleigh bed immaculately made.

“Have a seat,” said Mr. Weasley, gesturing to the bed. Ron did as told, looking down at his calves as they dangled off the edge; his pyjama bottoms didn’t even come close to his ankles anymore. “This won’t take long.”

“What’s going on?”

“Well.” Mr. Weasley sat down next to Ron and removed his spectacles to polish the lenses on the sleeve of his robes. “It’s come to my attention that something beyond friendship has developed between you and Hermione. Is that correct?”

“Who told you that?”

“Nobody had to tell me,” said Mr. Weasley calmly, placing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. “I’m not completely blind, you know.”

Ron winced, eyes still fixed on the checkered pattern of his trousers. “Right.” 

“Now, I hope you know that your mother and I think Hermione is a lovely girl, but as she’ll be staying here for the rest of the summer, we need to set a couple of ground rules.”

“No,” said Ron, “we really don’t.”

Unswayed, Mr. Weasley continued. “I’m sure it’s hard to believe, but I was sixteen once too. You may not realize it, but your hormones-“

“Please stop,” mumbled Ron, face burning, knowing as he did that his words fell on deaf ears. 

“She is not to be in your room with the door closed,” said Arthur. “As a matter-of-fact, make that  _ any  _ room.”

Ron didn’t know whether to laugh or melt into the floor in sheer embarrassment. The fact that his father thought that there was a chance he might be having sex, significant enough that he had initiated this sort of conversation - he almost felt like he was living in some sort of alternate reality. 

Which, given the situation that he’d gotten himself into, he sort of was.

“I understand,” said Ron. “And really, you’ve got nothing to worry about-“

“You say that now, but I know how - well - exciting - these new relationships can be - when your mother and I-“

“Gross,” Ron interrupted desperately, his word strangled and hoarse as his face fell into his hands. “I really don’t want to hear about that-“

“All I’m saying is that I’ve been there, and I understand.”

Ron looked longingly at the window behind his father’s head. He thought fleetingly that it might be less painful to fling himself out of it - his magic would kick in, he wouldn’t get too hurt - but then his dad would probably still seek him out to finish this discussion, so he thought he should just get it over with.

“I get it, all right, now are we done?”

Mr. Weasley shook his head. “Not yet.”

“It’s so early in the morning for this - I haven’t even had breakfast-“

“We need to talk about what happens when you return to Hogwarts.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” 

By that time, Ron was sure, this entire debacle would be ancient history, and he would go back to quietly pining over someone he could never have.

“I know I can’t control what happens when you’re there, but I can make sure you’re aware of the precautions you need to take-“

Ron had now taken the leap from embarrassed to downright mortified. “ _ Dad- _ “ 

“Do you know the basic contraceptive spell?”

Hermione owed him. She really, really owed him.

•••

The thing was, Harry had shown up in the middle of the night, been deposited unceremoniously by Professor Dumbledore in the Weasley family broom shed, whereupon he had been fed soup and generally fussed over by Mrs. Weasley. And then that morning, between the OWL results and Harry’s revelation about the prophecy - not to mention Fleur’s very brief appearance to greet Harry, which had rendered Hermione rather surly - there just hadn’t been an opportunity to bring up the whole dating thing. And so now, as the evening was drawing to a close, Ron felt as though he was now keeping two secrets from Harry: the real one, and the fake one.

He kept hoping it would come up somehow, given that his family never had known how to keep out of each other’s business, but they all seemed to operate under the assumption that he already knew. Ron’s guilt only grew at the thought: there was one thing he had always been with Harry, and that was honest.

But it was just a few weeks. By September, it would all be over, and the three of them could laugh about the preposterousness of the thing. But before he could get to that part, that hazy day in a distant future, he had to face up to the uncomfortable part. 

“We need to tell him,” Ron whispered to Hermione. They’d taken up residence on the sofa in the sitting room, alternating between watching Harry and Bill play chess (Bill was definitely letting him win, or at the very least, making it a fairer match) and perusing the latest edition of the Daily Prophet. “Actually, no.  _ You _ need to tell him.”

Hermione looked over from the pile of parchment on her lap. “Why me?”

“After the talk my dad made me have with him this morning - c’mon, I can’t be the only one suffering here.”

“I didn’t realize what a hardship this is for you,” she replied loftily, turning to an informational article on how to protect oneself from dementors.

“No, I didn’t mean - shit-“

Hermione patted him on the knee. “I’ll take care of it.” 

And then her hand lingered, palm flat against the faded denim, sliding slowly up and down the length of his thigh. 

“What’re you doing?” His words were scarcely louder than a breath.

In response, she echoed his words from the day before. “Just go with it.”

Did she know? Did she realize she was driving him mad, making his brain spin, making the rest of the world fade away? She couldn’t have done, or - Ron’s stomach sank - or she wouldn’t be doing any of this. If she knew, or if she felt any of it herself, this entire thing would be out of the question.

And just yesterday - which, in retrospect, felt like endless years ago - he had been considering telling her. He surely had been insane; he could have lost her forever.

But then her fingers skipped down the slope of his forearm, interlocking with his, and he pushed away those darker thoughts. If this was the closest he was going to get, then maybe, pathetically, it was better than nothing at all.

“Bill!” called a light, airy, heavily-accented voice from the kitchen. “You must come look at the centerpieces.”

“Be right there,” Bill called back, then turned his attention back to the chess board. “Sorry, Harry, mate-“ He nudged his rook forward. “Checkmate.”

Harry was left, perplexed, to watch the chess pieces demolish each other as Bill vacated the sitting room, leaving the three of them alone. Once the small calamity on the board had died down, Harry collected the pieces (some of them protesting loudly, demanding a rematch) into a wooden box and set it on the windowsill.

“So,” he said, spinning in his seat to face Ron and Hermione, “what do you lot want to…” 

His words ground slowly to a halt. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and then cocked his head to the side like an inquisitive, slightly confused puppy. 

“Oh, this?” asked Hermione innocently, holding up her and Ron’s linked fingers. “Yes, well, it is rather new-“

“And we’d have told you sooner,” Ron hurried to add, desperately searching Harry’s blank face for some sort of reaction, “only we haven’t had a chance - it isn’t the sort of thing you write about, y’know?”

To Ron’s immense surprise, what looked like relief washed over Harry’s face.

“Oh, okay,” he sighed, passing a hand over his scraggly mop of hair. “I’m just glad I’m not going mental.”

“That - that’s it?” Ron blurted out. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Well - yeah,” laughed Harry. “It’s not exactly surprising. Just-“ He lowered his voice. “Don’t be as disgusting as Bill and Fleur, all right? There’s only so much of that one house can take.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the ‘no kissing’ thing is very lovingly borrowed from To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before. :)


	4. The One With The Quidditch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there everyone! I would have loved to have this chapter posted sooner but my real life sort of took over and I just didn’t have the time or the energy to think about fic. But I’m getting back in the swing of it and it feels so good! All the support for this story is so amazing and exciting and I desperately hope you like it.

“Quidditch? Again?”

“C’mon, you love Quidditch.”

“Love is a strong word,” said Hermione, regarding the row of broomsticks in the Weasleys’ shed with a mix of suspicion and disdain. “I like supporting my friends when they’re playing Quidditch, but that’s about the extent of it.”

“So support us again, then, and come and play with us.”

Ron grabbed the family’s Shooting Star off its hook and propped it on his shoulder; the ancient wood had splintered near the handle.

Hermione raised her brows at him. “I may not love Quidditch like you do, but I know enough to know that’s the worst broom you own.”

“I’m not denying that, but look at it this way,” said Ron, retrieving his own Cleansweep and shouldering it as well. “You always play on Harry’s side, and he has the best broom of all of us, so - y’know, it evens out.”

She sighed. She didn’t necessarily mind flying, and over the past two weeks, she had become increasingly adept at successfully passing the Quaffle to Harry, but there had to be other ways that the four of them could spend their time. But then she looked at Ron, and the earnestness on his face, and she couldn’t bring herself to turn him down. 

Besides, she didn’t think it was very girlfriendly for her to stay inside and read her new Rune translation book, so Quidditch once again it would have to be.

“Also,” said Ron as he handed her the Shooting Star, “it’s alright to not be the best at something.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” she replied hotly as they stepped out of the shed, where Harry and Ginny were waiting for them, a picnic basket hanging off Harry‘s arm. “It’s just a matter of having different interests, and - and don’t you ever get tired of it?”

“Flying?” asked Ron, incredulous as the four of them set out for the orchard. “No. Never. Do you ever get sick of reading?”

“Of course not, but it’s completely different-“

“Not really.” Ron squinted into the blazing morning sunlight as they walked. “You get excitement out of it, don’t you? Opening a book, not knowing what’s inside, what’ll happen or what you’ll learn? Because it’s the same with flying, and Quidditch.”

“But reading is about knowledge - I mean, yes, there’s a certain adrenaline rush-“

“I’m just saying.” He turned his head to look at her; his face had already gone pink from the summer heat. “If you love something, you… you never get over the things that made you love it in the first place.” 

Hermione nodded, a tentative smile crossing her lips. “I suppose you’re right-“

Ron feigned amazement. “I am?”

“-but what if you never loved something in the first place? Like me with Quidditch, for example.”

“Well,” he said, slowing his steps so they remained a few paces behind Harry and Ginny, “then I reckon it’d be pretty easy to let it go.”

“Exactly. Which is why tomorrow I’m staying in with my Arithmancy books.”

Ron laughed. “Deal.”

“For today, though,” said Hermione, lowering her voice and grabbing his hand in the exact instant that Harry glanced back at them, “you should go easy on me.”

“Yeah, no,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Not doing that. Weasleys play to win.”

“But you should.” Hermione tugged on his hand until he got the hint and leaned toward her, his head down by her face, so she could whisper right into his ear. “It’s what a boyfriend would do for his girlfriend.”

Straightening up, he grimaced. “Yeah. Probably.”

•••

Hermione would never admit it - she was stubborn, if nothing else - but it had actually been a very good day. Thanks to Ron’s leniency and Harry’s natural talent, her and Harry’s two-person team had come out on top, though this outcome had done nothing to dampen Ron and Ginny’s good mood. With the sun sinking in the direction of the horizon, the stifling heat of the morning gave way to a gentle breeze, and they settled underneath the shade of a massive apple tree to crack open the picnic basket they had brought along.

As expected, it contained enough food to feed a moderately-sized army, and they spread out their bounty of sandwiches, biscuits, and fresh strawberries over a patchwork quilt. They dug in, ravenous from a Quidditch-filled day, and Hermione felt an all-too-rare sense of contentment come over her. Tucked away in the peace and quiet of the orchard, she could forget, at least momentarily, about everything looming over them: the upcoming term, the prophecy, her and Ron’s secret. She never wanted to let on to anyone else, but occasionally she needed a break from being so inside her own head.

“I still can’t believe you missed that one goal,” said Harry to Ron, grinning as he bit into a biscuit. “I swear you just watched it go by.”

With a shrug, Ron leaned back on his palms, his legs stretched out before him. “Sun was in my eyes.”

Ron hated losing. He hated feeling like he hadn’t measured up, like he could have and should have been better and simply wasn’t. Last term, when Quidditch hadn’t been going his way, he had been almost inconsolable. And yet here he was, having allowed the Quaffle past him countless times, and he was taking it in stride. Smiling about it, laughing even.

And he’d done it because she asked him to.

Yes, it was all a ruse. Every move that either of them made was carefully calculated, a means to an end. But still, he didn’t have to do it. He didn’t have to let her win… but he knew she liked winning too.

She scooted closer until her hips had just barely touched his and laid her head on his shoulder. He’d gone quiet, but not a sulky, surly sort of quiet - just peaceful. Perhaps he, too, was appreciating the solitude and safety of the orchard. He smelled of freshly cut grass and sweat and Hermione closed her eyes, forgetting where she was, simply breathing him in. She could still hear the chatter of her friends, the birds chirping in the trees, the trickle of the stream that bordered the orchard, but it was all white noise compared to the very presence of Ron beside her. His chest rose and fell with every breath he took, and his shoulders shook when he laughed, and every so often the breeze blew the shaggy ends of his hair across her face. He consumed all the space in her thoughts.

“Hey,” Ron said softly, “sit up for a second, yeah?” 

Nonplussed, Hermione lifted her head as he straightened up, wincing and rolling out his wrists.

“Sorry.” He offered her a little smile. “My hands were falling asleep.”

“That’s okay.”

“You can come back now,” he said with a little pat to his shoulder, and as Hermione happily resumed her previous position, he draped an arm around her waist.

“Erm - so,” began Ginny, looking curiously at Ron and Hermione. “You’ve never actually told any of us how this started, just that it started.”

“No, I have,” Ron replied. “I told you it was none of your business.”

“Okay, then, what about when?” added Harry. “I just feel like I’d have noticed.”

Against the small of Hermione’s back, his hand was trembling just the slightest bit. In all the craziness - in the flurry of events that had been the wedding and Harry’s arrival at the Burrow - they had never bothered to come up with an origin story for their relationship. But they needed something, and they needed it now.

“Well-“ Hermione cleared her throat and spared just the briefest glance at Ron. “It was at the end of last term.”

“But when? Was it before OWLs?!” 

“Oh - no-“

“It was in the hospital wing,” Ron interjected, pressing his fingers into the side of Hermione’s waist. “Y’know, after - after what happened.”

The stickiness of this tangential mention of Sirius lasted about half a second, thanks in large part to the way Ginny’s face lit up at this revelation.

“Really?” she beamed. “Wait, what else happened? Did you-“

“It’s kinda private,” said Ron.

If this was intended to calm Ginny, it had the exact opposite effect. “But you can’t just say something like that and then not tell us anything else-“

“All I said was that it was in the hospital wing,” he said in exasperation. “I don’t ask you every detail of whatever’s going on with you and Dean Thomas-“

“Because you’d get all big-brother-y about it, and probably tell the twins-“

“They already know,” Ron assured her calmly. “They  _ always _ know.”

“Okay, but the point is, this is a big deal, you can’t blame us for wanting to know how it happened.”

Ron inhaled deeply through his nose, and then released a slow breath. “All I’ll say,” he said with a tone of finality, “is that almost dying kinda makes you think.”

And he hugged Hermione a little further into his side.

•••

“We’ve been back here the whole time,” said Harry, his green eyes wide with feigned innocence. 

“You must not have been looking properly,” added Ron with a nod of solidarity to his friend. 

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes narrowed, her arms crossed over her chest. Hermione watched the exchange with bated breath. The truth was that this back room of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes wasn’t terribly big, and Ron, at six feet tall with that fiery ginger hair of his, was never difficult to spot. And Mrs. Weasley had raised seven children, two of them being the most illustrious pranksters that Hogwarts had ever seen; she was no fool.

“Of course you were,” she said finally, still stern. “Because I know that you three know better than to go wandering around by yourselves these days.”

“We definitely do,” Ron agreed, though his agreeable nature did nothing to assuage his mother’s suspicions.

“Mhmm. Well, we’re leaving in five minutes, so come say goodbye to your brothers.”

“We’ll be there in a minute.”

The second the curtain had shut, Harry turned back toward Ron and Hermione, the prior innocence on his face now replaced by cool resolve. 

“Right, so about this Malfoy thing-“

“There isn’t a Malfoy thing,” said Hermione with all the patience she could muster. “We don’t even really know what we saw.”

“Yes, we do, we saw him threatening Borgin - he tried to intimidate him, he showed him something that scared him.”

“Yeah, and he does that to everyone,” added Ron as he leaned back against a shelf of Headless Hats. “He’s a bully, but he’s all talk.”

“He’s not, though.” Harry was indignant. “He nearly had his father have Buckbeak executed, Hagrid could have been fired - I  _ know  _ his family’s in with Voldemort-“

“Don’t-“

“I know they are too,” said Hermione, “but he’s sixteen, and Voldemort has no use for an underage wizard, he just doesn’t.”

“But we don’t really  _ know  _ that-“

With a flourish, the curtains swept open again, revealing two identical red-haired wizards in magenta robes, both of them grinning like the cat who ate the canary.

“There they are,” said Fred with the air of a grand announcement, sweeping into the room. “Our lovely mother sent us to fetch you - she seems to think you can’t be left unsupervised.”

“She does have a point,” George added. “Because we all know full well you haven’t been back here for the last hour.”

“How, exactly, do you know that?” asked Ron skeptically.

“We know everything that happens in this shop,” said Fred. “And we did learn quite an interesting little tidbit of information this afternoon.”

There were so many little things Ron did that he thought no one saw: the little twitch in his cheek when he was irritated, or picking his cuticles when he was stressed. But Hermione saw all of it, and she could see, now, the undercurrent of anxiety running through him, even as he tried to keep his cool. 

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Come off it,” said George. “You know exactly what we’re on about.”

His eyes flitted between Ron and Hermione as he spoke.

“Who told you?” asked Ron.

“Mum,” George grinned.

“Mum?!”

“You have absolutely made her summer,” Fred said with a shake of his head. “I don’t know how you did it - I definitely didn’t think you had this in you-“

Hermione felt a swell of irritation rise in her at their words, and beside her, Ron went tense. 

“Shut up-“ Ron interrupted, to no avail, the tips of his ears going red.

“-but I must say, I’m very impressed. Good luck to you, Ms. Granger.” 

Fred gave a little bow in Hermione’s direction, and then he and George backed out of the room.

Ron dragged a hand over his face and looked up to the ceiling as though appealing to a higher power for strength.

“All right, let’s go,” he said, slipping a hand into Hermione’s. “I’m sure you want to get back and start reading all your new books, don’t you?”

“I do,” admitted Hermione as they filed out into the cacophony of the shop. “You know me so well.”

•••

Somehow chores always felt less so at the Burrow, even though at sixteen, Hermione still couldn’t use magic to speed them along. But the thing was, the house itself was inherently magical, right down to its core, and even tasks like washing the dishes and setting the table were a bit less tedious than when Hermione did them at her own home in London. 

Or it could have just been that Ron was there.

But whatever the reason, when Mrs. Weasley tasked her and Ron to set the table for dinner, she found herself quite agreeable to it. Harry and Bill being in the kitchen gave her license to stand a little closer to Ron than she normally might have, and as she laid down a napkin and spoons alongside a plate, she felt long arms sneak around her waist from behind.

“What are you doing?” Her words came out as hardly a breath.

“Nothing.” 

Ron’s voice was low, husky, but somehow still laced with a smile, and his breath on her neck sent goosebumps racing along her skin. She shuddered and placed her trembling hands over his forearms.

“I’m trying to do something here,” she chided him, though there was absolutely no force behind her words.

“Sorry.” He hugged her tightly back against his chest. “Couldn’t help it-“

“ _ Bonjour _ !” came a melodic voice from the door.

At the sound, Ron’s arms fell slack, and Hermione’s heart fell into her stomach. As Fleur glided into the room, tall and slender, her silvery hair a glossy sheet down her back, the playful aura around Hermione and Ron dissipated like fog into the night.

Logically Hermione knew that it was neither Fleur’s nor Ron’s fault that he had this reaction; Harry, too, had gone a bit dazed as Bill rose to greet her. She had Veela blood; it was just what happened with teenagers. But logic was no match for the fierce jealousy that gushed through Hermione’s veins at the very sight of her. She embodied everything that Hermione wasn’t, and when Ron looked at her, she wanted to hex the both of them.

“Stop,” Hermione muttered, breaking free of his grasp, suddenly disgruntled at his touch. “You could at least actually help me with this.”

“Huh?” 

She poked him in the arm. “Just set the table.”

It wasn’t his fault, she reminded herself. It was just the effect of the Veela. And the way he had been hugging her, it had all been for show.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t still hurt.

•••

She could not stop herself watching him. Everything he did - the way he bit his lip as he considered his next move, the flex of his lean muscles under his Muggle t-shirt as he moved the chess pieces across the board, the flickering lantern light catching strands of gold in his hair - it was mesmerizing, and she couldn’t have torn her eyes away if she tried.

Which was madness, because all he was doing was playing chess with Harry, and she had seen it happen a thousand times before… and yet. Maybe it was his casual confidence as he played a game he truly excelled at, or the lingering sensation of his arms wrapped around her waist, but she couldn’t get enough. 

The nice thing about it was that now, admiring him was allowed. Encouraged, even. They were, after all, trying to paint a picture of a couple completely enamored with each other - or were they? Their ‘break-up’ was planned for early September, upon their return to Hogwarts, which loomed in the very near future. There was no way they could go from gazing at each other through rose-tinted glasses one day, to an amicable friendship the next, without raising at least a few eyebrows.

It was probably for the best, anyway: Hermione felt she might have been getting a little too caught up in it, herself.

She’d been ready to hex the twins, yesterday. They never resisted the chance to give their younger brother grief, but their insinuation that Ron had somehow achieved the impossible by dating Hermione - well, she had just always felt it would work the other way around. That if anything ever happened, she was the one lucky enough to be with someone like him. 

Were any of it real, of course.

And it wasn’t. It wasn’t real, and in a week’s time, it would be ancient history. She just had to remember that.

On the floor of Ron’s bedroom lay the Sunday Prophet, its pages dismantled and strewn about. Grateful for a distraction, Hermione stretched out an arm and swiped a page at random, then settled back against Ron’s headboard to read. Only, she had picked up the sports section, which contained articles and articles predicting the outcome of the upcoming British and Irish Quidditch League, and of course the Cannons were expected to finish dead-last. Hermione bit back a smile, thinking of Ron, the one-time Liverpool football supporter.

“Brushing up over there?” Ron grinned up at her from the floor, where he sat cross-legged in front of the chess board, opposite Harry.

“Oh-“ She hadn’t actually thought either of them was paying attention to her. “I - I don’t know. Are you two almost done?”

“Can’t really tell you, can I? Or Harry’ll know how close I am to checkmate.”

“ _ Are _ you?” asked Harry, bending forward to study the chess board as though closer proximity would give him a better understanding. 

Hermione knew from experience that it wouldn’t: losing at chess to Ron had been a regular experience since first year. 

_ “You need to slow down,” _ he had said to her once last year, around the time Dumbledore had been sacked.  _ “Stop and think about what’ll happen before you make a move.” _

_ “But that’s almost impossible,” _ she had argued,  _ “when I don’t know what you’re going to do next.” _

He had shaken his head, called her barmy, and had her in check in three moves.

Now, as a mostly impartial outsider and not someone deeply entrenched in the game, Hermione could see quite plainly that as always, Ron was well on his way to a swift and decisive victory. She loved watching him when this happened, the way the confidence that was buried somewhere deep in him would struggle to the surface, the sense of satisfaction and accomplishment they came over him. Though she honestly suspected that most of the time, she would happily watch him watch paint dry, times like this were her favorite.

“Don’t believe the rubbish you read in there, by the way,” said Ron, the shadow of a smirk on his face as Harry moved one of his pawns.

“I almost never believe what I read in the Prophet,” Hermione assured him. 

“No, I mean about the Quidditch league - the Cannons’ll probably be better than they think-“

“So you reckon they might win a match?” Harry chimed in.

“They might even win two,” Ron played along.

“If you’re lucky.”

Hermione dropped the sports section down to the floor again. She would have her head screwed on straight again soon enough, once term began and this whole ruse came to an end. She could once again devote herself wholly to her studies, and forget about frivolous things like fake relationships.

And probably real ones, too.

“Checkmate!” Ron announced cheerfully. 

Harry shrugged, likely having resigned himself to his loss at the very outset of the match, and began to gather up the pieces. Ron stood and jumped onto the bed next to Hermione, making the mattress bounce and the ancient springs squeak. 

“So what now?” he asked, beaming at her, his  hand finding its way to her knee. “Want to be my next challenger? I’ll go easy on you-“

“No, I-“ Where before she had been unable to take her eyes off him, she now found him almost difficult to look at, he shone so brightly. “I just want to go to sleep, actually.” Her eyes darted over to a slightly deflated Ron. “Harry, would you, erm, give us a little privacy? So we can say goodnight?”

Harry mimicked vomiting into his palms and stood, pushing the chessboard under Ron’s bed with his foot. “Yeah, I’m going to the loo anyway.”

As the door closed behind him, Hermione nudged Ron’s hand away from her leg. He deflated a little more.

“So…” She looked down at her own fingers, toying with a loose thread on the orange quilt on the bed. “So we need to tone it down.”

“Tone what down?”

“Us - this - the whole thing-“

He looked askance. “You literally just sent Harry out of here so we could, I don’t know, snog, or something.“

“I know that, but we’re supposed to have our break-up in a week,” said Hermione, “so it’s got to look like things are - well - like they’re fizzling out.”

Ron nodded, slowly, a deep, thoughtful sort of head bob. “Or we could just have a big screaming row in the common room. It’s kind of our style,” and he poked her teasingly in the thigh.

Impatient, Hermione shook her head. “But then people will expect us to hate each other, and we’re supposed to stay friends.”

“Supposed to?” he repeated, brows knitting together.

Hermione doubled-down. “Yes, supposed to. It’s supposed to just fade into the background so we can act like it never happened, and that won’t work if you have your hands all over me all the time.”

He blinked at her, and for a second she wished she could rewind time and take her words back. “You’re the one who started all of this-“

“And you’re the one who continued it.”

A silence, broken only by the muffled creak of the staircase. “So does this mean I can start winning at Quidditch again?”

“You could stop inviting me to Quidditch altogether if you want.”

“Oh, has that been your plan all along, then, to get out of Quidditch?”

“Ron,  _ seriously _ -“

“Fine!” He flung his hands up in the air. “I’ll - I’ll do what you said, I’ll tone it down.”

“Thank you.” Another silence in which they stood, regarding each other, neither breaking eye contact. “I didn’t realize this was such a hardship for you.”

Her words came out clipped and tough and not at all how she meant them. 

“I didn’t say that it was.”

With a sigh that came from somewhere deep inside her, she started toward the door. “Goodnight.”


	5. The One With The First Day Back

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief as their feet touched down on the overlong grass.    
  
“See?” said Ron, grinning at her over his shoulder. “I told you it’d be okay.”   
  
Loosening her grip on his waist, she nodded as Ron let the broom fall to the ground. “I still think we should’ve walked, though.”   
  
“But this was so much faster.”   
  
If not for that end-of-summer feeling in the air, and the way he was smiling at her, she might have argued more. She had argued, actually, approximately thirty minutes prior, as Ron and Harry had retrieved the two worst brooms from the Weasleys’ shed and announced their plan to fly into Ottery St. Catchpole for the night. They couldn’t take any of the good brooms, which were also the only brooms Hermione trusted, because they would have to hide them somewhere in the partly-Muggle village, and what if they were stolen, or damaged? Harry would risk the safety of his Firebolt for nothing, and Ron was nearly as attached to his Cleansweep as he was to Pigwidgeon, and they would hear no arguments to the contrary. And given that the Weasley family only owned two brooms deemed, in Ron’s words, ‘rubbishy’ enough for this particular expedition, they’d had to double up. Hermione, consequently, had spent the entire ride to the village gripping tightly to Ron’s waist.    
  
That bit, she hadn’t much minded.   
  
They stowed the brooms - a Shooting Star and a Comet One-Thirty - in a small copse of trees at the edge of town, and then set off down the main street. Harry and Ginny, a few paces ahead, were talking a mile a minute. Or rather, Ginny was, issuing anecdote after anecdote of advice about captaining the Quidditch team, based heavily on Charlie’s experience, while Harry listened, rapt.   
  
“They’ve got the best bakery here,” said Ron as they walked past a fish and chips shop, “and usually before closing, they’ll sell things half-off since it’s better than throwing it away.”   
  
“You really think with your stomach, don’t you?” Hermione teased.   
  
“Yeah,” Ron shrugged, smiling easily at her, “most of the time. See, there it is, it’s just across the street-“   
  
He closed his fingers around Hermione’s wrist and tugged her toward the kerb, glancing down the street to check for any oncoming cars. When the coast was clear, the four of them scurried across the street to be met with the heady scent of vanilla, lemon, and butter emanating from the bakery. It wasn’t until they pushed through the door that Ron let go of her hand, and even then it felt like a loss.   
  
Their meager pool of Muggle money went a long way: they left laden down with miniature lemon drizzle cakes, Chelsea buns, a treacle tart, and cranberry scones, all of which Ron and Harry insisted on carrying on behalf of their female companions.   
  
“Here,” said Ron to Hermione, using one hand to pry open the cardboard box in his arms. “Try this.”   
  
He held out a Chelsea bun.   
  
“I’m not really hungry-“   
  
“That’s no reason not to have pudding - I’ll split it with you, just try a bite.”   
  
“I’ve had Chelsea buns before.“   
  
“Yeah, but these ones are really good.”   
  
Hermione took the sticky bun from him and bit into it, chewing thoughtfully. God, she hated when he was right.   
  
“Fine,” she conceded as he grinned with satisfaction. “It’s good. Do you want the rest?”   
  
“Yep.”    
  
He plucked the bun from her outstretched hand and took a massive bite, directly from the place where she had already bitten. She tried to stuff down the thrill that rose in her at this harmless little action: it wasn’t any different than the spoon they had shared, back in London, before any of this started, and it clearly was no big deal to him. There was no need to be so caught up it it now.   
  
“Let’s not go back yet,” said Ginny around a bite of lemon drizzle cake. “Mum’s going to be all mental about making sure we’ve packed for tomorrow, I can’t deal with it.”   
  
“So what do you want to do?” asked Harry.   
  
“Hit the pubs?” joked Ron. “Actually, Fred said there’s a wizarding one off an alley somewhere, but I reckon you still need to be seventeen to get in.”   
  
“We could go to the park,” Ginny suggested. “They let you stay there until it’s dark out.”   
  
The setting sun had already begun to streak the sky with orange and pink, but with no better ideas, the four of them turned down a narrow dirt lane, which led them to a small playground and a garden. It was mostly empty, save a mother and two small boys, whom she was trying, unsuccessfully, to shepherd off of the carousel.    
  
“I just realized,” said Harry, sounding both awestruck and amused as he stared around at the monkey bars, the swing set, the sand pit. “I’ve never been to a park before.”   
  
“What?” asked Ron, flabbergasted. “Never?”   
  
“Not that I can remember,” Harry added. “Maybe I went with my - my mum and dad - but I would’ve been really little, so probably not. And the Dursleys never brought me with, so-“   
  
“Oh, that’s it,” said Ginny, taking the box of baked goods from Harry’s arms and shoving it at Ron. “Monkey bars. Now. Let’s go.”   
  
And she dragged him off by the sleeve.   
  
It was one of those nights where the air was perfect, calm and warm with just the occasional soft breeze to rustle the treetops. The light washed everything in gold, picking up a thousand colors in the always-vibrant hair on Ron’s head. Whenever anyone said his hair was red, Hermione felt it was a terrible understatement: it contained infinite shades within it, and she couldn’t believe she was the only one who saw all these little, wonderful things about him.   
  
He set the boxes from the bakery on a bench and ambled over to sit on one of the swings, letting the heels of his trainers drag through the wood chips as it swayed under his weight.   
  
“Don’t reckon I’ve actually been here in years,” Ron commented thoughtfully as Hermione seated herself on a neighboring swing. “Not since before I started at Hogwarts.”

Hermione surveyed the park, trying to imagine this version of Ron that she had never known, likely here with his mum and with Ginny when the older Weasley children were away at school. It was strange, unsettling even, to consider that there had once been a point when she hadn’t known he even existed. That they’d each had lives before each other, when now she could not fathom hers without him in it.   
  
Across the playground, Ginny was giving Harry a demonstration on proper monkey bar use. To Hermione’s keen eye, he looked more interested in watching the swing of her hips.   
  
“It’s nice here,” said Hermione. “It’s quiet. The parks in London are never quiet. Come to think of it, nothing in London is ever quiet.”   
  
“Yeah, I learned that at Grimmauld Place,” said Ron. “The first night we were there, last summer - it was before you came to stay - a bunch of ambulances and fire trucks went by at like, three in the morning, it scared the hell out of me. I thought we were all about to die,” he chuckled.    
  
“What did you think it was?” asked Hermione, laughing along with him.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He pushed his feet into the ground to propel himself back, then let the swing drop forward. “Was Grimmauld Place though, wasn’t it, so it could’ve been anything, really.”

“You do get used to it,” said Hermione. “The noise.”   
  
“Yeah,” he shrugged, looking unconvinced. “S’pose you probably do. Never really got the chance, we were back at Hogwarts too soon - and I mean there, if you hear something in the middle of the night, you probably are about to die-“   
  
“Oh, stop.” She reached out to swat his arm. “Don’t go into the year with that attitude.”   
  
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “We’re best friends with Harry Potter. We sort of have to have that attitude.” 

“It’ll have to be better than last year,” said Hermione with an optimism that she could not quite get herself to believe. “Now that Umbridge is gone.”

“That Slughorn bloke’ll have to be better than her, at least.” Arm extended towards the gap between them, he wiggled his fingers invitingly at her. “They’re looking at us,” he muttered.   
  
“So?” Hermione whispered back. “We’re supposed to be cooling things off, or no one’s going to believe it when we say we broke up.”   
  
“Sure they will,” countered Ron, “if you’re the one telling them. No one ever questions you.”   
  
“You do. Actually,” she realized, “you’re about the only one who does.”   
  
And was it the end of the world, really, to hold his hand just one more time? She really doubted that Harry and Ginny were scrutinizing their relationship all that closely...   
  
She placed her palm against his and looked up to see him studying her, curiously, as though he was about to make his next move in chess.   
  
“Is that a bad thing?” he asked, blue eyes piercing through her. “That I question you?”   
  
“No.” She tightened her grip on his hand, hoping to cling to the moment before it slipped away. “It’s a very good thing.”

•••

For the first time in six years, Hermione woke on the first of September with a pit of dread in her stomach. She had hoped, naively, vainly, that the last night of August might stretch out forever, but the last vestiges of summer had slipped through her fingers nonetheless. Now, with the sun streaming steadily through the curtains in Ginny’s room, Hermione had no choice but to pack the rest of her belongings in her trunk and begin the arduous, mildly dangerous task of wrangling Crookshanks into his basket.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the night before: the pastries, the park, Ron’s warm hand in hers. Not as she used a little slice of sausage to coax Crookshanks into his basket, or on the hours-long ride in the Ministry car to King’s Cross station, her leg pressed against Ron’s the whole time, or as she stepped through the barrier to Platform 9 ¾. It would all be over in a matter of hours - there was no point prolonging it, or everyone would make a much bigger deal of it when it did end - and they’d go back to simply being friends. Friends that bickered, and disagreed, and drove each other spare, but would defend each other to the ends of the earth.

Things could always be worse.

Harry had pulled Mr. Weasley aside for a private conversation - Hermione would have bet anything that he was sharing his Malfoy theory - so she and Ron boarded the train and set out for the prefects’ compartment. As they wove through the crowded corridor, Ron reached for the handle on Hermione’s trunk, nudging her hand out of the way and taking it himself.

“I don’t need help,” she told him, not least because it was quickly proving near-impossible for one person to pull two trunks down the narrow walkway. 

“I don’t mind.” 

The wheel of Ron’s trunk clunked heavily against a sliding compartment door.

Hermione edged in front of him. “I can do it myself.”

As she took the handle back, she looked up at him just in time to see - was it annoyance? - register in his face; it sliced across her heart like a knife. She hated this, God, she  _ hated  _ this. It had been the worst idea in the world, making all of this up, letting it linger on and grow and become bigger than itself. And she hated that she had ever, in the darkest recesses of her heart, let herself imagine that it was real when it so clearly wasn’t.

They were the first to arrive at the compartment designated for the prefect meeting, and Hermione hurried inside, tugging Ron behind her and sliding the door shut.

“Sorry,” she said as they settled into seats. “But people were looking, and we probably shouldn’t look like-“

“Yeah, I get it,” said Ron, stretching his legs out in front of him, eyes focused on the scuffed-up toes of his trainers. “You don’t have to keep saying it.”

Hermione’s voice momentarily failed her. “Oh - right - well, we still need to figure out how we’re going to do it. Break up, I mean.”

His eyes flickered over to her. “Do we? ‘Cause you said you didn’t want to have a big screaming match or anything.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what do you want?” he asked, clearly having long lost any and all patience for her.

“To go back to normal-“

“Then let's just do that. Let’s just drop all of it, pretend like-“ He swallowed, the column of his throat bobbing. “Like none of it it ever happened.”

The train whistle blew as the engines rumbled to life. 

“But we still have to decide how to, you know, make that known to everyone.” Frustrated that he wouldn’t meet her eyes, Hermione shifted in her seat to face him. “I wouldn’t want anyone to go on thinking it when it wasn’t true-“

“It was never true,” he reminded her. “So-“ Lips pressed tightly together, he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Why don’t we just tell Harry and Ginny at breakfast tomorrow? We’ll just tell them we’ve changed our minds. They’re the only ones who’ll care, anyway.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted. “And hopefully they won’t ask too many questions.”

The door slid open, revealing the bright, smiling face of Hufflepuff prefect Hannah Abbott, and Hermione forced her lips into a smile as she greeted her.

•••

Harry was not in a good mood. Between the bizarreness that was the Slug Club, his encounter with Malfoy, his subsequent encounter with Snape, and the revelation that Snape had gotten his way and been appointed Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Hermione couldn’t really blame him. They were only on the first day of term - class hadn’t even started - and already it seemed like everything was falling apart. He had put in a few compulsory minutes in the common room as the Gryffindors all reunited and shared tales of their summers, but then he had slipped quietly up to the relative solitude of his dorm. Ron had made to follow him, ever ready to provide emotional support, but Hermione had tugged him back down onto the sofa beside her. 

Over the years of their friendship, they’d all but mastered a certain form of silent communication. Somehow, with just a look, Hermione was able to convey that Ron needed to stay, that they needed time alone together to solidify their impending ‘breakup’ - and with the tiniest jerk of his head, he acquiesced and settled back into the sofa.

Why was it that sometimes she could read him like a book, she felt that she understood him better than anyone else, that she knew him on a deep and visceral level - and yet other times, he was a puzzle she was certain she would never solve.

Most of the younger students had already gone up to their dorms, exhausted by the excitement of arriving at the castle, which left the common room populated by fifth, sixth, and seventh years. Despite the fact that most of them were talking amongst themselves, playing games, comparing course schedules, Hermione felt eyes on her - and on Ron, who despite their rather terse exchange on the train was still sitting more closely to her than he normally would. 

Not that she minded.

She pulled her legs up to her chest, heels lodged against the cushion of the sofa, and selected a book at random off the stack next to her.  _ The Spellman’s Syllabary.  _ It would do, she decided, so she opened it up to an arbitrary page in the middle and held it up to her face. Furtively she scanned the room. Ginny and Dean Thomas sat curled up in the same armchair; Colin Creevey was showing off his new camera to Demelza Robins; Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet gushed over new broomsticks. And in a far corner, sitting backwards in a wooden chair like a teenager in a Muggle film, was Cormac McLaggen. His small, dark eyes had fixed themselves on her, unwavering, unsettlingly hungry in their nature, and Hermione quickly hid her face in her book. 

“So, hey,” came Dean’s voice from the armchair, a blessed interruption, “how’d all this get started?” He indicated to Ron and Hermione with a casual wave of his hand.

Hermione's mind raced to come up with an adequate response. The origin story they’d given Harry had been vague at best, and she didn’t want to call much attention to something that was about to end, anyway.

“Oh, don’t expect them to tell you anything,” said Ginny before either Hermione or Ron could reply. “He didn’t even tell me himself, I had to find out from Luna-“

“You’re always telling me your life’s none of my business,” Ron chimed in, kicking up his feet onto the coffee table. “So mine’s none of yours, then.”

He was picking at the cuticle of his thumb as he spoke. He hated lying - she saw the tension in him every time they were forced to come up with another fabrication - and it was time to stop.

She poked him on the leg. “Want to go for a walk?”

He agreed, and to a brief chorus of cheers and wolf-whistles (which incited Ron to fire a sharp glare at all involved), they left the common room through the portrait hole, not touching. 

The castle corridors were deathly still, though the distant footsteps of patrolling Aurors could be heard from some of the lower levels. Ordinarily they wouldn’t be allowed to walk the halls at this time of night, but their status as prefects afforded them privileges others didn’t have. They set off, no destination in mind, as Hermione collected all of the courage she could muster.

“So, I suppose now is when we officially break up,” said Hermione softly.

Ron nodded. “Okay.”

“We’ll just walk around for a few minutes, go straight to our rooms when we get back, and then tomorrow we’ll tell Harry.”

His hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his robes. “Okay.”

“Thanks for this,” she found herself saying as they passed the Room of Requirement. “Erm - you know - for going along with it in the first place.”

“Oh.” For the first time all day, the hint of a true smile graced his face. “Well, I’m the one who dragged it out so long, so thank you for going along with that.”

“You’re welcome.” 

“It’s a bit of a relief, though, innit?” he continued, more energy in his voice now. “Not to be lying to Harry, I mean, I just - I don’t like lying to him.”

“Neither do I, but it’s over now.” She swallowed heavily, feeling betrayed by the sudden lump in her throat. “So…” She held her hand out to him, businesslike. “Friends?”

He took it, enveloping her hand entirely with his, and shook firmly up and down. “Friends.”

_ It wasn’t real _ , she told herself as they returned to the common room, over and over, as they gathered up their things and departed to their respective dormitories, as she changed into her pajamas and climbed into bed without speaking a word to her dormmates.

But it had sure felt real sometimes.

•••

“Why are you being weird?” was the first thing that Harry said over breakfast.

“We’re not being weird,” replied Hermione briskly, focusing on the bowl of porridge before her as beside her, Ron eagerly gulped down scrambled eggs.

“Funny,” said Harry, narrowing his eyes behind his round glasses. “I didn’t say which one of you was being weird, but you just said it’s both of you.”

Anyone who said Harry was unobservant wasn’t looking closely enough themselves. 

“Everything’s fine,” muttered Ron around a sip of pumpkin juice, only to choke when Hermione kicked him under the table.

“All right, out with it.”

“We broke up last night,” said Hermione briskly, stirring her porridge to mask the way her hand was shaking.

“What?!” Harry’s jaw fell open. “Why?”

“No one reason,” Hermione said, bumping her heel into Ron’s leg again. “We just decided that we work better as friends.”

“Oh.” Harry’s face had screwed up in confusion. “Really?”

“Is that all right with you?” asked Ron, half-laughing.

“No, I - it’s not up to me - you lot do whatever you want to do,” he stammered. “I’m just… surprised.”

“Well, it’s done,” said Hermione. “And I don’t know why you think we’re being weird, because we’re not-“

“All right, all right, point taken-“

“And we’re still going to be friends, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Okay,” said Harry with a shrug. “Then… brilliant. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.”

Hermione glanced over at Ron, but he didn’t look back.


	6. The One With The Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely reactions to the last chapter - the more stressed you were, the happier I was! Sorry not sorry… hope you enjoy this one too!

Ron’s motivation to study had reached an all-time low. The most he could manage most days was to join his friends in the common room and spread his books and parchment around himself. When it came to actually writing essays, reading assigned chapters, or practicing spells, he simply could not find the means within himself to pick up a quill. 

Hermione, as a result, had been issuing near-daily threats to revoke his access to her meticulous class notes, but she had been making the same empty promises since first year and he didn’t expect anything to change now. What would happen would be what always happened: she would scold him for his lack of studiousness, he would make some appeal to her intelligence in his plea for help, and she would relent. It was the ideal situation. Not only did he complete his homework in half the time, but it was the perfect excuse to be around Hermione. To watch her, to pester her, to see that flush rise in her cheeks.

Of course, he didn’t have that anymore. 

He’d been trying to keep his distance over the past few days. He hadn’t been cold or anything, or rather, he hadn’t tried to be, but he had spent the whole summer knowing that if he wanted to - and he always wanted to - he could wrap an arm around her shoulders, or hold her hand. He had let himself pretend so many times that it was real, that they weren’t trying to put on a dignity-saving charade, and now that it was over, he had to work to remind himself that he was never going to have her in any real way. Her insistence on staging their breakup for the very day of their return to Hogwarts had been proof enough of that.

So rather than bother with his Potions homework, he found himself sprawled sideways in an armchair in the common room, surreptitiously watching Hermione complete the very assignment he was avoiding.

“We’ve got prefect rounds in a couple minutes, you know,” Hermione told him, pointing her quill at him. 

“I know.” 

“Are you ready to go?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “It’s rounds, I don’t need anything for it-“

“What about your badge?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He reached a hand blindly toward the ground until it landed on his rucksack, which he hauled up into his lap. The crimson and gold badge was, as suspected, in a side pocket, and he extracted it and pinned it to his robes. “Anything else?”

“I suppose not,” she said in that lofty tone she always took when she didn’t want to admit that she had been wrong. “Let me just finish this paragraph, and then we’ll go.”

Ron tossed his rucksack back to the floor. “You got it.”

At exactly half-nine, they stepped through the portrait hole and out into the corridor. Last year, they’d perfected their routine. They always started in the dungeons, eager to get that part of the castle out of the way, and then worked their way slowly back up to Gryffindor tower. So now, without having to speak a word, they headed to the farthest staircase from them, the one that, even when it switched directions, always took them down to the deepest recesses of the castle. 

They weren’t talking much, not that Ron expected them to. In hindsight, Ron knew he’d been a bit of a prat to her in the final days of their fake relationship. He’d been surly and subdued and he knew it hadn’t been right to take it out on her, but he just hadn’t wanted to see it end. Part of him had thought that, if he just had a little more time, he could show her that he might actually be a good real boyfriend - not that he’d been at all sure how to go about it making the shift from fake to real - but she had put a rather definitive end to the whole thing.

But at the very least, he still wanted friendship. 

Hermione, however, was the first to speak. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah,” he replied immediately, keeping his voice light, casual. “Course.”

“Did you, erm - I know it was only a couple days ago - but did you write your parents? So that - I suppose so that they can stop thinking we’re a couple?”

“Nah,” said Ron with a little shake of his head. “Ginny’ll’ve taken care of that already.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, yeah,” he laughed. “She thinks I’m too nosy into her business, so she makes it a point to be nosy into mine.”

“True,” said Hermione as they rounded a corner. “But Ginny can handle herself, you don’t have to worry about her.”

“I know, but I can’t help it.”

“Some sort of older brother instinct?”

“No - well, I mean, yeah,” he conceded, Hermione’s resultant laughter making him smile as well. “But I don’t even think it’s really that. It’s just that the last time I let myself think ‘oh it’s Ginny, she’s tough, she doesn’t need me’, well - I mean, she ended up in the Chamber of Secrets.”

Hermione stopped, horrorstruck. “There’s no _way_ you could have known what was happening,” she insisted fervently, “nobody would have suspected it was what it was-“

“But I didn’t even - I barely noticed,” he said, his stomach lurching at the recollection. “I thought she was just being all quiet and weird because she was around Harry so much, and she had such a big crush on him - I couldn’t see what was happening right under my nose.”

“You were twelve years old, how could you have?”

“I know.” He jerked his head to indicate to her to start walking again. “And I know Ginny’s tough and she can take care of herself, she reminds me of that every chance she gets, but… she’s the only sister I have, I’ve got to look out for her. And I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

The edges of Hermione’s lips curved into a smile. “You’re a good brother.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know about that. Anyway, the point is that I’m sure she wrote a whole letter to them specifically about it.” He put on a thin, high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like his sister. “‘Dear Mum and Dad, Ron and Hermione have broken up. Can you believe it? I’m sure she was the one who chucked him, since he’s such a git’-“

Hermione’s fist connected with his shoulder, and he stumbled as he ducked to avoid further blows. “Stop it!” she laughed. “I’m sure she doesn’t think that.”

“That I’m a git? Yeah, she definitely does.” He fell back into step with Hermione. “And anyway, nobody in their right mind would think that  _ I  _ chucked  _ you _ , so…”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

He wanted to start with asking if she’d ever seen herself, if she’d ever noticed the swing of her own hips as she walked or the way her hair curled around her face. Or if she’d ever spoken to herself, been aware of the way a fire lit in her eyes when she spoke of something she felt passionate about. And then he thought he should ask if she’d ever seen him, Ron, the lanky freckled git in third-hand clothing that never fit him right even with magical modifications, who didn’t get a single Outstanding on his OWLs, who didn’t even have expectations set on him and still never lived up to them. 

Instead, he shot her a  _ you-know-this-already  _ sort of look. “Anyway, have you told your parents?”

Her whole face went pink. “I haven’t written to them yet, no.”

“What? You’ve got to tell them.”

The Grangers had been so kind to him that summer, and so generous, and to continue misleading them, even from afar, made him faintly sick to his stomach.

“I know that,” she said primly, “but I try to write them as little as possible - don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” though he knew his glass face had betrayed him, “but they’re your parents, don’t you think they want to know how you’re doing?”

“Probably,” she admitted, her face going a deep red now, “but they’re ‘no news is good news’ sort of people, and they know I like to be independent, and - and I will tell them, I will, but it’s just hard to know what to say.”

“It’s not that hard,” said Ron as they paused on a landing and waited for a staircase to swing into place. 

“Says the boy who lets Ginny do his dirty work-“

“I didn’t  _ let  _ her, she just  _ did  _ it - and it’s not the same thing at all, and you know it, because you never tell them anything-“

“And it’s none of your business!” she snapped, brushing past him to march up the stairs. Her angry footsteps were the only sound in the castle and they echoed off the stone walls; a few of the portraits awoke and blinked groggily at the disturbance.

“Yes, it is.” Ron took the steps two at a time and easily reached her. “I’m part of this too and I don’t want them thinking something that’s not true.”

Hermione set off down the fourth-floor corridor, her hair bouncing along her back, shoulders squared, resolutely not looking at him. Ron took a deep breath in through his nose.

“Look,” he began, as calmly as he could. “I know your family’s different from mine. I just thought the whole point was that we could finally stop lying to everyone.”

She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. “I’ll tell them,” she said quietly. “Sometimes it’s just hard to know what to say.”

Her rare display of vulnerability squeezed Ron’s heart. “I can help you, if you want.”

“You would?”

“Yeah, ‘course I would.” He watched as her features softened, and gave her a gentle nudge in the side with his elbow. “You gotta help me with that Potions essay, though-“

Her fist landed on his shoulder again.

•••

Harry had left the tryouts of the Keepers until last. This, Ron felt as he watched his sister score her fifteenth goal that morning, had done him absolutely no favors. All it did was give him time to ruminate, to overthink, to stare around at his competition and consider all the ways in which they might be better than him: faster broom, better instincts, lack of crippling anxiety. Or, in the case of Cormac McLaggen, sheer size. He was as tall as Ron but nearly twice as broad.

He tried to fix his attention elsewhere, and cast his eyes to the stands, where Hermione sat patiently watching. A few rows behind her were Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, the former of which kept beaming at him whenever he looked over. It struck him as a bit strange; she’d always been friendly, but he wasn’t sure they’d ever had a conversation outside of class before. 

“Oi, Weasley,” came a gruff voice from Ron’s left. McLaggen. Of course. “Noticed you showed up with Granger today.”

“Yeah,” replied Ron, slow and tentative. “So?”

He had never liked McLaggen, never even had the patience to tolerate him. The bloke was about as arrogant as they came, which was a laugh considering all evidence pointed to his skull being mostly hollow, and he seemed to think he was entitled to everything he wanted. Hermione had said he’d been at that Slug Club meeting on the train; he had probably loved every second of it.

“So what’s the deal with you two, then?” Cormac smirked. “‘Cause I heard she chucked you.”

_ He’s just trying to psych you out.  _

“We’re friends,” said Ron firmly, watching Demelza Robins glide through the air on her Nimbus. 

“Just friends?”

Ron felt his entire body go rigid. “What’re you getting at?”

Cormac shrugged exaggeratedly. “Wouldn’t mind getting to know her, if you know what I mean, now she’s back on the market and all.”

Ron’s hands curled into fists. 

“She’s been playing hard-to-get,” Cormac continued, casting his eyes toward the stands where Hermione still sat, “and I thought maybe you lot got back together. But since she’s single…”

A muscle in Ron’s cheek began to twitch with the effort of not clocking him one. What was the worst that would happen if he did? He wouldn’t be using magic against him, just good old-fashioned brute force. A detention, at the very worst? He’d suffered far worse in the past, trying to defend Hermione…

“Ahh, well,” said Cormac. “I probably won’t have time for a girlfriend once I’m on the team, anyway.”

Ron opted to ignore this. There was no way Hermione would go for a dolt like McLaggen, absolutely no way, but Ron’s stomach roiled at the thought of Hermione with anybody else. Whether it was McLaggen or not (and Ron thought he could safely suspect it would be ‘or not’ in that case), she would probably date someone eventually, and for real this time. And whoever this nameless, faceless bloke ended up being, he would be the one lucky enough to hold Hermione’s hand, to comfort her when she was upset… to kiss her. 

And Ron thought, if he could be sure of anything, it was that he would never be that nameless, faceless bloke.

Finally picking up on Ron’s disinterest, Cormac directed his attention to a pair of nervous-looking second year students, both of whom were trying out to be Beaters, and Ron made a mental note to give Hermione a heads-up.

What seemed like hours passed before Harry called for the would-be Keepers to line up. He tried the younger students first, most of whom missed all or most of the goals and were immediately removed from consideration. Then Cormac mounted his broom - a Cleansweep Twelve - and shot up into the air. And as he hovered in front of the rings, blocking shots left and right, Ron’s stomach sank like a stone. For all that he was an insufferable bell end, the bloody idiot was actually good. Rage bubbled up inside Ron as he watched. What if he lost Hermione  _ and  _ his spot on the team to this - this-

Cormac dove left as the Quaffle flew right, clean through the hoop, and Ron didn’t even bother to fight the grin on his face. Four out of five saves was tough to beat, but it wasn’t impossible, and Cormac just looked so - well, it was some sort of combination of baffled and furious, and it sparked hope inside of Ron. He wasn’t normally such a vindictive person - usually he reserved this sort of animosity for Malfoy - but with the way Cormac kept looking at Hermione, like she was some sort of prize for the taking, he couldn’t help it.

Harry nodded to Ron. “Your turn, mate.”

As Ron mounted his broom and kicked off the ground, he heard a cry of “Good luck!” from the stands. It wasn’t Hermione - he knew her voice too well - and he caught a glimpse of Lavender waving eagerly at him as he flew in front of the hoops. 

_ You won the Quidditch cup last year, _ he told himself as Katie Bell tossed the Quaffle from hand to hand, contemplating her shot.  _ It’s five saves. Five saves is nothing.  _ And he’d spent all summer practicing, even if he did spend a decent portion of his time letting Hermione win. He could handle this.

Katie’s shot was easy; he knocked it out of the way with a fist and flew happily back to the posts, only to see another Quaffle whizzing his way. Ginny had thrown one while his back had been turned, but he extended an arm and just barely blocked the shot with his fingertips. As he righted himself on his broom, Ginny gave him a satisfied nod.

Over in the stands, Hermione had perched on the edge of her seat.

But she needn't have stressed; he blocked the next three shots with ease and flew back down to the pitch to accept his appointment as Keeper, not even bothering to mask the grin on his face. As Cormac marched up to Harry, demanding answers and claiming favoritism, Ron landed on the springy grass to see Hermione hurrying toward him.

“Congratulations!” she exclaimed, and for one wild second, Ron let himself believe that she was going to do a running leap into his arms, and he could spin her around, and maybe even kiss her if the mood seemed right…

In reality, what he got was a quick, clearly platonic hug around the neck, but even that couldn’t deflate him. She’d still come running out into the pitch for him.

“You did great,” she beamed at him. “Honestly, you made it look easy. Now can we go see Hagrid?”

“Whenever Harry’s ready to go,” agreed Ron, looking over Hermione’s shoulder to see Cormac stalking angrily off the pitch. “Hey, erm - McLaggen.”

Hermione grimaced. “What about him?”

“Has he been bothering you?”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle-“ and Ron must have let his horror show on his face, because she hastened to add, “he just keeps trying to talk to me, even though I’ve made it quite clear I’m not interested - but it’s not a big deal.”

“All right, ‘cause it’s pretty clear that he’s got a thing for you,” said Ron, watching as distaste registered on her face. “So if it gets to be a problem - you’ll tell me, won’t you?”

Carefully, she nodded. “I will… but what are you planning to do if I do?”

“I dunno,” he replied. “Punch him in the face, probably.”

“Ron!”

•••

‘Free period’, in Ron’s opinion, was a bit of a misnomer. He and Harry had two of them - time slots that Hermione had filled with Arithmancy and Ancient Runes - but over the past few weeks, there had been very little chess and magazine-reading during these times, and a lot more revision and library-visiting than Ron had once envisioned. 

“I’m gonna try to find that Human Transfiguration book that McGonagall said we need,” said Harry as they finished up breakfast one Wednesday morning. Hermione had already scurried off to Ancient Runes, citing her desire for a meeting with Professor Babbling as cause for her early departure. 

“I’d bet you ten Galleons that Hermione already has it,” Ron replied. “Probably owns it herself, actually.”

“Probably, but I have to finish that essay and she’s already left - so d’you want to come to the library with me?”

“Er-“ Ron caught sight of his sister’s red ponytail, swinging as she left the Great Hall. “You go ahead, I’ve - erm - I’ve got something to do.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” said Ron, scrambling over the bench. “I’ll meet you there.” 

He grabbed his rucksack and one last slice of toast and bolted for the exit. Thanks to his long legs, he caught up to her easily, jumping onto a staircase next to her just as it began to move.

“Hi there,” he greeted her cheerfully, holding out the slice of bread. “Want some toast?” 

“No,” chuckled Ginny. “Thanks, though. What’s up?”

Ron took a bite of the toast and chewed, considering how best to approach this. With her, it was usually best to just come out and say it, but he still didn’t want to reveal too much…

“I need your help with something.”

“All right…”

He couldn’t exactly blame her for being skeptical. “So, tomorrow’s Hermione’s birthday, and-“

Ginny’s face lit up. “Oooh, okay, interesting. Go on.”

“You’re the one who just interrupted  _ me _ -“ Ron shook his head in disbelief. “Anyway, I just need you to bring something up to her dorm tomorrow morning, before she wakes up.”

He took another bite of toast and watched this process in Ginny’s mind.

“But she wakes up at like, the crack of dawn to read - I don’t even share a room with her-“

“I know, but-“ He swallowed. “Please, Ginny? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important to me.”

“I thought you two were broken up,” she said with the air of someone relishing gossip.

“We are,” he said, even as  _ we were never together  _ rolled through his head. “But she’s still my best friend-“

“I thought Harry was your best friend-“

“I can have two best friends - and it’s her seventeenth, that’s a big deal.”

“Of course I’ll help you,” said Ginny, her smile big and genuine. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

Which was how, at half-ten that night, the two youngest Weasley siblings found themselves being hugged exuberantly around the legs by a certain house-elf who wore six knit hats, a pair of children’s athletic shorts, and mustard-colored socks.

“All right, now, Dobby,” said Ron, kneeling on the gleaming tile floor to shake the elf’s hand. “I was hoping you could help me out with something.”

“Anything for Master Wheezy,” Dobby gushed, his hand still clasped firmly around Ron’s. “Anything for Harry Potter’s most trusted friend-“

“Great,” interrupted Ron, knowing he should before Dobby really got going on the wonders of Harry Potter. “That’s great. Have you got any strawberry ice cream?”

“Of course, sir!”

His feet made a little pitter-patter sound as he hurried across the room to a massive cupboard and used his entire body weight to yank it open. From the top shelf, a tub the size of Ron’s head floated down into Dobby’s outstretched arms. 

“Oi, while you’re at it,” called Ron, “can you get some hundreds-and-thousands?”

A jar of the brightly-colored sugar bits came zooming across the kitchen toward Ron, who deftly grabbed it out of the air as Dobby waddled toward him with the tub of ice cream clutched against his torso.

“Thanks, mate,” smiled Ron, kneeling down again. “Here, this is for you.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a gleaming silver Sickle. It wasn’t much - Hermione would have been aghast at the feebleness of this token of appreciation - but after dropping nine Galleons on a bloody Potions book, it was all he had left.

Dobby, however, recoiled as though he had been offered poison.

“Oh,  _ no, _ sir _ , _ ” he gasped. “Dobby can not accept payment from Master Wheezy, sir, it is Dobby’s honor to serve you, sir-“

“I insist,” said Ron gently. “Save it toward a new pair of socks.”

Looking guilty, Dobby tucked the coin into his pocket. 

“Have you got any banoffee pie?” Ginny piped up from her seat on one of the long wooden tables. At Ron’s curious look, she shrugged. “It’s Dean’s favorite.”

Ron opted not to comment on this and, as Dobby took off running, he plunked the tub of ice cream and the hundreds-and-thousands onto the table next to Ginny; immediately she spun on her seat.

“Why ice cream, by the way?” added Ginny as Ron fetched spoons and a glass bowl from a nearby cupboard. “Won’t it melt?”

“Er - I’ll put on a charm on it,” said Ron, inwardly thankful that she’d mentioned it. “Anyway, it’s about the thought, really.”

“So when she wakes up to a puddle of strawberry milk-“

“She won’t!” Ron scowled at her as he picked up a scoop and carved out a perfect sphere of ice cream. “I thought you were here to help me.”

“I am,” she said, taking a spoon and digging out a bite of ice cream for herself. “And I want this to go well for you.”

“You do?” 

“Yeah.” She smiled gratefully at Dobby, who had brought not only the banoffee pie but a treacle tart - ‘ _ for Harry Potter, miss _ ’ - as well. “I don’t even understand why you split up, you never really explained.”

“I don’t have to explain it to you,” he said, though with less vitriol than he’d used in previous similar conversations. “I didn’t realize you were so invested, anyway.”

“It’s your life,” she said sagely. “But… you seemed really happy this summer.”

And he had been. For all that lying to his family and his best friend had placed a permanent weight in his stomach, it had been outdone by the sheer brilliance of such closeness with Hermione. It wasn’t even the element of physical touch, though he’d enjoyed that too, but rather knowing that they had to be foremost in each other’s minds. Everything he did that summer, he did with her in mind… and that bit, he realized, hadn’t quite stopped.

“She’s my best friend,” he stated firmly. “And this ice cream isn’t for  _ you _ , quit it-“ 

He swatted at her hand, only to be patently ignored as she unearthed an entire frozen strawberry in retaliation.

“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” she said brightly, handing him a stray spoon.

She had a point; they had enough ice cream to feed the entire school, and Hermione’s parents had ingrained in her a strictness about sugar…

“So is this a stupid idea?” asked Ron, scraping his spoon around the perimeter of the tub to pick up the melty bits. “Should I scrap the whole thing?”

“No!” said Ginny, adamant. “Not at all, it’s really sweet. I actually didn’t know you had it in you.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Cheers.”

Between bites of ice cream, they solidified the plan. Ginny was to stow the ice cream in her rucksack, which would be protected from spilling and melting by a Preservation Charm. Then, closer to midnight, Ginny would use an Extendable Ear to confirm that all three occupants of the sixth year girls dormitory had indeed fallen asleep. Once she confirmed this, she was to sneak inside and set the pre-made bowl of ice cream and the jar of hundreds-and-thousands on Hermione’s bedside table.

And affixed to the hundreds-and-thousands was to be a handwritten note from Ron, reading:

_ Just in case you want to give them another chance. _


	7. The One Where Hermione Hides In The Loo

Hermione smoothed the note out on her bedspread and read it again. It was just ten words, just ten little words, a little in-joke between them, and yet… yet they were so much more. In ten little words, Ron had managed to convey so much more depth.

_ Another chance.  _ Was it possible he was really just talking about hundreds-and-thousands, just teasing her for the way she had besmirched them that evening in London, or… no. He couldn’t be. He had been so ready to be done with the entire thing, so relieved once she had officially called it off. It was foolish to get her hopes up; this was nothing more than Ron being his usual self, giving her a silly gift to make her laugh on her birthday. She’d told him she thought hundreds-and-thousands were useless, so what had he done? Given her a lifetime supply of them. 

Lavender and Parvati were still sleeping - Hermione actually couldn’t remember the last time she had woken up after them - so she crept carefully out of bed and dressed in the grey morning light, wrestling her hair back into a thick plait at the base of her neck. As she left, she tucked the note into her pocket and gathered up the ice cream and the hundreds-and-thousands. She had known Ron to eat ice cream for breakfast, more than once: he’d definitely want to share.

The common room, however, wasn’t empty the way she expected it would be, a solid hour before breakfast. Rather, on the sofa in front of the hearth lay Ron, on his stomach, his face smashed into a throw pillow. In the quiet room, his garbled breaths seemed to echo off the stone walls, and he looked so peaceful that Hermione couldn’t bear the thought of bothering him. On quiet feet she approached him, compelled to be closer somehow, to see him with his walls down, when he didn’t know she was looking. He was rarely ever still; rather, he usually had an energy that filled the whole room. 

She was just about to turn back, to let him rest, when he let out a grunt and shifted upon the sofa, arching his back. As he struggled up into a sitting position, squinting against the fire light, Hermione took a few steps back lest he think she had been watching him.

“Hey,” he croaked, swiping a futile hand over his disheveled hair. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you - why are you sleeping down here?” 

She placed the ice cream on the coffee table, perching on the arm of the sofa.

“Oh, I-“ Whether his face was flushed from sleep or the warmth of the fire, she couldn’t tell. “Just thought I’d, I dunno, greet you down here today. And I did a great job of it, clearly,” he said with a little chuckle, rubbing a hand over his sleep-flushed cheek.

“Well, you’re in luck, because I was planning to share.”

“Excellent.”

Ron inched over on the sofa to create a narrow gap between his pyjama-clad leg and the armrest, and Hermione slid down to join him. With her thigh pressed tightly against his, she could hardly concentrate long enough to cast a  _ Geminio _ spell on the spoon he had provided with the ice cream. Ron made to reach for the new utensil, only to sheepishly draw his hand back.

“I probably shouldn’t eat your birthday gift, should I?”

“I know it was your plan all along,” she replied, “or you wouldn’t have made sure to get these.” 

She picked up the jar of hundreds-and-thousands and rattled it pointedly at him.

“Those are for you,” he insisted. “I really think you should give them another shot, you might find you like them.”

His blue eyes, having lost the bleariness of sleep, were now big and bright and achingly earnest as he looked at her - but she would have to be crazy, wouldn’t she, to even think there was anything to overthink? He was just Ron, just stubborn and insistent. He was this way with chess, too, and the Chudley Cannons. It didn’t mean it had anything to do with her.

“I know what I like,” she said loftily, picking up her own spoon. “And those-“ She aimed the spoon at the jar- “are all yours.”

The corner of his mouth twisted up in a gentle smile as he caught her eye again.

“Whatever you say.”

•••

Hermione knocked her foot into Ron’s shin under the table. “So how’d you do it, anyway?” 

“Do what?” he replied, arranging his face into an expression of innocence as he slid three fried eggs onto his plate.

She kicked him again. “You know what.”

“Oh,  _ that _ .” He grinned and picked up his fork, ignoring the glare he was receiving from across the table. Beside Hermione, Harry watched on in perplexed amusement. “I have my ways.”

“By ‘his ways’,” piped up Ginny, from where she sat several feet down the table with Dean and Luna, “he means me.”

“Ginny!” exclaimed Ron, indignant, as his sister burst into peals of laughter. “You’re ruining the mystique-“

“You’ve never had any mystique-“

“It’s quite all right,” Hermione interrupted, laughing herself, “I had assumed it had to be something like that - that, or you’d hired an elf to do it.”

“Reckon I could have done,” Ron mused, ducking his head as an owl swooped low over the Gryffindor table, “but I didn’t think you’d approve.”

“I wouldn’t have.”

“Exactly. Plus, little sisters have to make themselves useful sometimes, haven’t they?”

Rolling her eyes as Ron chuckled again, Ginny swiveled in her seat so her back was to them and struck up a very loud and pointed conversation with Dean about his three younger sisters.

“Anyway,” Hermione began, glancing curiously at Harry, whose eyes had still not left Ginny, “regardless of how you did it, it was really nice of you to do. Even if you did eat most of it.”

“And now I bet you’re sorry you missed out,” said Ron, pointing his fork at her, “just because you seem to think it’s not proper to eat ice cream before breakfast.”

“Because it isn’t.” She’d had a few bites, sure, but all the while she had heard her parents’ voices in her mind, warning her about the horrors that so much sugar would wage upon her teeth. And anyway, she had enjoyed watching Ron more than she’d ever enjoyed any sugary treat. “But I suppose it’s the thought that counts.”

“Ahh, y’know.” Ron reached out a hand and snagged a slice of toast from a plate. “It was nothing.”

Something odd washed over Hermione then, something akin to disappointment, like air slowly seeping out of a punctured balloon. What he’d done, apparently, had been nothing special in his mind at all. Just an act of friendship, like everything else.

“Well, then,” said Hermione, surprised to hear her own voice shaking, “I’m going to class.”

She swung a leg over the bench and stood.

“It doesn’t start for another twenty minutes,” said Ron, his gaze curious, confused, and uncomfortably intent upon her.

“I have reading to do.”

“Really?”

“I’ll see you in Potions.”

Snatching her bag from the floor beneath the bench, she slung it over her shoulder as she hurried from the Great Hall. Rarely did she feel ever foolish, but she sure felt it now. To let herself think that a little bowl of ice cream and a jar of hundreds-and-thousands (which she didn’t even like, and he knew that) had been some grand gesture… she should have known better. She should have known better than to let her hopes up, when Ron was the sort who would do anything for his friends. This had been nothing out of the ordinary for him. 

And he hadn’t been wrong, Ancient Runes wouldn’t start for another twenty minutes, so she ducked into a third-floor lavatory on her way. She fixed her plait in the mirror - curls were forever escaping, despite attempts to use magic to tame them - and stepped into a stall. She was just hanging her bag on the hook inside the door when the great creaking of hinges signaled others entering the lavatory. The sound of two voices, talking fast, filled the echoey room.

“Are you  _ sure _ , though?” 

It was Lavender Brown; after five years of cohabitation, Hermione would have known her voice anywhere.

“Yes,” came another, exasperated voice, which Hermione immediately identified as Parvati Patil. “I’m positive.”

Their footsteps rang out against the tile floor. Through the gap in the stall, Hermione could see them pause in front of the cracked, grimy mirror against the opposite wall. 

Later, looking back, she still couldn’t understand what compelled her to do it, but Hermione climbed, catlike, onto the top of the toilet seat and crouched down so that she could not be seen. She could have just left the lavatory - or better yet, just used the toilet like a normal person - but she was desperate not to be seen.

“But you don’t really  _ know, _ ” said Lavender. “Maybe they’re just not into PDA.”

“They split up, like, the first night of term,” Parvati continued. “Seamus said that Dean told him that Ginny told  _ him  _ that they told Harry the next day, at breakfast.”

Hermione went cold all over. She was not unaccustomed to being the topic of gossip - Rita Skeeter had made sure of that - but this was not some outlandish rumor designed to sell papers. This was about Ron.

“Did she say why?”

“I guess they told Harry that they decided to just be friends,” said Parvati. 

“Oh.” This answer seemed to please Lavender. “Then he probably won’t be all hung up on her, if it wasn’t some messy breakup.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time,” Parvati replied. “They’ve been friends since first year, you don’t just go from that to a relationship overnight.”

Was she right? Was it naive to think that any two people could make the transition to a romantic relationship without any hiccups? Was Hermione truly deluded to be reading into the ice cream gift?

Her legs trembled with the effort of crouching atop the toilet seat, not to mention that what she was hearing had made her feel faintly sick, but she dared not move.

“I’m telling you,” said Parvati, “you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, but just because he’s not interested in Hermione, that doesn’t mean - I mean, where do I even start?”

“There’s a Hogsmeade weekend coming up,” said Parvati over the sound of running water. “You could ask him to go with you.”

“But he’s always with her and Harry-“

“But he wouldn’t be,” Parvati said firmly, as though working to drive a point home, “if he’s there with you.”

“Yeah,” said Lavender thoughtfully. “Yeah, maybe.” The water shut off. “We should probably go, it always takes forever to get to Trelawney’s room.”

The hinges of the door squeaked again, and Hermione was left alone, frozen and speechless, her heart racing.

•••

She could have killed Harry. He knew exactly what he was doing, strategically scheduling his Quidditch practices for the exact dates and times of the Slug Club meetings, and while it may have saved him and Ginny a lot of grief, it only expounded it for Hermione.

The thing was, having already expended a significant amount of her life trying to keep Harry alive, to throttle him now would have been incredibly counterproductive.

But she could - and did - sit in Slughorn’s office and quietly seethe, watching as the Potions professor plied well-connected teenagers with butterbeer and attempted to coax gossip out of them. Hermione knew why she was there - Harry, evidently, had identified her as the best student in their year (God, it  _ really  _ was his fault, wasn’t it?) - but in a more real sense, she had no idea why she was there. She was Muggleborn; she had no connections in the wizarding world, and she certainly wasn’t interested in listening to Cormac McLaggen drone on about his Uncle Tiberius’ friendship with the Minister of Magic himself.

“According to my uncle,” Cormac was saying haughtily, pouring himself a generous goblet-full of elderberry wine, “Scrimgeour’s planning on being a very different sort of Minister than Fudge was. I, for one, think it’ll be very refreshing.”

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes; McLaggen could speak no more intelligently about the state of wizarding politics than he could quantum physics. 

Slughorn, unfortunately, was riveted. He leaned forward on the table, the sleeves of his velvet jacket straining against his rotund form.

“Is that so, m’boy?” he boomed, gazing around at his guests to gauge their level of interest, which ranged from nonexistent to lukewarm. “Now, then, you must tell us more.”

“Well.” Cormac, clearly, was eating up all of the attention, and took a swig from his goblet as if trying to build suspense. “He’s taking a very hard line against You-Know-Who and all his supporters, he’s determined to lock up as many of them as he can.”

Hermione bit down so hard on her lip that she nearly drew blood. The fact that they considered arresting Stan Shunpike to be any sort of victory...

And on and on it went. As the night wore on, her irritation toward Harry only grew, festering into something akin to full-out rage. Though she knew, deep down, that Harry had mostly just been trying to keep Ron from feeling left out, she also knew that at the very moment that Slughorn was droning on about his close personal friendship with Celestina Warbeck’s agent, Ron and Harry and Ginny were all having a good laugh at her expense. Fine. She’d see how much they all laughed when she stopped sharing her Transfiguration notes with them.

She could picture the three of them perfectly, joking around in the common room, lazily draped over various pieces of furniture from the exhaustion of a hard Quidditch practice. She could see Ron, a crooked smile stretched over his face, maybe some beads of sweat still clinging to the ends of his hair. Without her there, he wouldn’t even pretend to work on homework. Instead he’d maybe challenge Harry to a game of chess, and his eyes would go all dark and intense as he concentrated… he might bite his lower lip, not even realizing he was doing it…

Rapidly she shook her head. She had to stop doing this to herself. It was over, it was done, and it was never going to happen. Not the way she wanted it to. 

So then why couldn’t she get him out of her head?

“Miss Granger?”

She spun back into reality to see all eyes on her, including Slughorn’s, which twinkled with amusement. 

“Goodness, Miss Granger,” he boomed, chuckling, “and here I thought you were always paying attention!”

“Oh - I’m sorry, sir-“

He waved a massive hand in dismissal. “No matter, no matter. But I was saying, m’dear, that I hoped you could inform Mr. Potter of my upcoming Christmas party. Yes, that’s right!” he said gleefully, now addressing the party as a whole. “Yes, you’re all invited - you and the guest of your choice-“ He delivered this news as though it was the most generous gift he could ever give them- “to what’s often been called the social event of the year.”

Hermione glanced around at her fellow students, wondering why none of them found this as odd as she did: Slughorn had not taught at Hogwarts in nearly twenty years. Conversely, some of them seemed rather intrigued: Lavender Brown, who had spent the greater part of the gathering curiously eyeing Hermione, had lit up with intrigue.

Slughorn turned to address Hermione directly again. “Now surely, Miss Granger, you understand why Mr. Potter absolutely must be there.”

She couldn’t believe what she was about to do. All the annoyance she had felt toward her friend dissolved away, redirected toward the professor who felt the need to parade around The Chosen One like a prize-winning show pony. More to the point, if she and Harry were going to be stuck attending this party, it meant that Ron would be stuck alone in Gryffindor tower.

“Well-“ Hermione did her best to arrange her face into an expression of distress. “I’m sure he’d love to be there, sir, only he’s terribly busy with Quidditch-“

“I can plan around Quidditch, can’t I?” Slughorn smiled. “Find out his schedule for me, won’t you? I want to be sure he can be there.”

Baring her teeth in some semblance of a smile, Hermione nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

Slughorn started prattling on again, attempting to regale them with tales of Christmas parties past, as Hermione’s mind raced. There probably was no getting any of them out of going to this party - though she still had several weeks to sort things out -  but she could, potentially, find a way to make it less miserable. They were allowed guests, after all. If she invited Ron, even just as friends…

Yes, she decided as the party drew to a close with a great scraping of wooden chairs against stone floors, that was what she would do. The mere thought of it gave her a little jolt of excitement. Maybe the party would be just the thing to guide her and Ron in the right direction: formal robes, music, butterbeer… it could be the chance to redo the mess of the Yule Ball. And selfishly, it was a perfect excuse to keep him out of Lavender’s reach.

She was among the last of the students to leave the office - Slughorn had insisted on reminding her to speak with Harry, as if she could forget - and when she stepped out into the corridor, it was empty save for one lone wizard, leaning against the wall. 

Cormac.

“Hey there,” he greeted her, his voice echoing off the walls, the smile on his face not quite meeting his eyes.

“Hello,” replied Hermione tersely, striding purposefully down the corridor, gaze fixed straight ahead.

He stood straight and jogged a few steps until he had passed her, then spun on his heel so that he walked backwards in front of her.

“Can you get out of my way?” she asked, trying to dart around him only to find herself blocked. “I’m serious,  _ move _ -“

“So, about that party,” he said, the same disconcerting smile on his face. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “What about it?”

“We’re meant to bring dates.” His eyes darted up and down the length of her body. “So what do you say?”

Hermione made no effort to hide her grimace. “I’m not going to that with you.”

It was as though a switch had been flipped. Where once Cormac had been smarmy and smirking and overall insincere, he had now become cold and cross.

“Well, why not?” he snarled, blocking her again as she tried to duck past him. “You’re single, aren’t you? I mean, maybe if you were still dating Weasley or something, that’d be different.”

Of course. In his twisted little mind, the only thing that could stop her dating Cormac, was dating someone else. Merlin forbid she have any agency of her own.

But the corridor was dark, and oddly cold, and they  _ were  _ quite alone, and she really didn’t like the look in his eyes.

“But I am,” she said, nodding hastily. “I mean - we’ve just gotten back together, so - so naturally I’ll be going to the party with him.”

“Figures,” he scoffed. “Hopefully you’ll break up before the party.”

With a shake of her head in disgust, Hermione finally managed to sneak past him and hurried to the staircase, leaping onto the bottom step before it had fully locked into place at the landing. Cormac was behind her - she could sense his eyes on her - but she never looked back, instead darting through the castle as though being pursued. She ducked through a tapestry, one of her favorite shortcuts, and emerged just feet from the painting of the Fat Lady.

The scene in the Gryffindor common room was exactly as she had expected: the various members of the Quidditch team lounging about on the sofas and the floor in front of the hearth. Ron, still in his practice robes, had taken up one of the bigger armchairs and was tossing a Quaffle from hand to hand as he chatted with Harry. 

There was no other option: Hermione marched confidently into the common room, ignoring the greetings and attention of the other students, and deposited herself directly into Ron’s lap. 

Ginny nearly choked on her tea. “Erm,” she sputtered, “I’m sorry, have I missed something?”

Hermione shifted about on Ron’s lap to see that his face had gone a particularly vibrant shade of scarlet. “You didn’t tell them?” she said in a tone of exaggerated admonishment, poking him in the chest. 

Eyes wide, he stared at her, and she stared back, hoping to communicate to him without words.  _ Please play along, _ she thought desperately.  _ Please. _

“Oh, right, sorry,” laughed Ron, placing a casual hand on Hermione’s leg. “Just reckoned you’d figure it out eventually-“

“Er,  _ yeah- _ “ 

The portrait hole swung open again and Cormac stomped inside. He took one look at Hermione and Ron and made for the dormitory stairs, a furious air surrounding him as he went.

“I’d just gotten used to you two being broken up,” said Harry. “You’re telling me I have to switch back again?”

“Is that bad?”

“No, it’s like I said before. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione.

Ron tossed the Quaffle to Harry and looped his free arm around Hermione’s waist. “So how was the Slug Club?”

He was trying to make his voice gentle and boyfriend-ly, Hermione knew, but he couldn’t stop the note of derision that laced his words.

“Fine, I suppose.” She settled back against him, noting as she did the way he completely stopped breathing. “Sorry, am I squishing you?”

“No, no!” Ron hugged her a little tighter, and she felt her own breath catch. She hadn’t known how much she had missed this until she had it back. “No, it’s fine, just, now that you’re back, I thought - d’y’wanna go for a walk?”

It was clearly code for  _ let’s go somewhere so you can explain this _ , but Hermione agreed all the same, reluctantly standing up, the loss of his body heat distinct and dismaying. 

She had missed it, yes, and she had it back now - at least for the next few minutes - but it still wasn’t real. 

Even so, she couldn’t resist taking Ron’s hand in hers as they left the common room. Whatever it was that they had, she could still enjoy it.

And he kept holding her hand as they walked, in comfortable silence, down the portrait-lined corridor. He was expecting her to say something - to share with him just how she had gotten them into this situation,  _ again _ \- but there was so much to say, and nowhere to start, and the words got caught in her throat.

“A bit of warning might have been nice, y’know,” he said as they started down the stairs to the sixth floor. He wasn’t angry; as a matter of fact, his lips were pinched together as though fighting back laughter.

“I didn’t have any warning!” She used his hand to pull him to a stop. “It’s just, Cormac-“

“Cormac?” Ron’s face went dark. “Was he bothering you? I told you, if he’s been bothering you, I really will kick his arse-“

“It’s nothing I can’t handle, it’s just-“ Her eyes darted around the corridor; there was always the chance they would encounter a fellow prefect, and this wasn’t a conversation she wanted overheard. “Come here.”

By the sleeve of his robes, she dragged him into a nearby classroom and shut the door behind them. Ron jumped up to sit on the professor’s desk at the front of the room, his lanky legs swinging, and eyed her intently, concern still etched all over his face. 

“So,” said Hermione, leaning back against one of the student desks in the front row, “Slughorn’s having a Christmas do.”

Ron’s lip curled in distaste. “Seriously?”

“Yes, and so - oh, and he is adamant that Harry has to be there, I think he’s started to see through the little Quidditch practice thing-“

“That’s not the point right now,” Ron blurted out, flustered.

“Right, so, as I was leaving, Cormac was waiting for me, you know, outside the office, and he asked me to go to the party with him. As his date.”

A little muscle began to twitch in Ron’s cheek. “So what’d you say?”

“I told him no, but - it’s disgusting, honestly, but apparently my telling him no wasn’t a good enough answer, and he mentioned you so I-“ She pulled her lips between her teeth, watching him carefully. “So I just told him we’d gotten back together.”

“So we really are doing this again,” said Ron, marveling a bit at the words. 

“It was the only thing that made him back off,” said Hermione. “He seems to think that if I were single, there’s no way I wouldn’t want to go with him and - and he followed me back here, I didn’t even have a chance to tell you-“

“No, no, it’s all right, don’t worry about that.” Ron hopped down from the desk and took a step toward her, hands briefly outstretched, before he seemed to take notice of himself and crossed his arms over his chest. “You just surprised me, was all.”

“It’ll only be until Christmas-“

“Christmas?!”

“Well - yes - otherwise he’s going to try to get me to go to this party with him, he even said something about how he hopes we break up before then.”

“Wow, he really is an arsehole.”

“I know,” agreed Hermione. “And I know it’s ridiculous that this is happening again, but there was nothing else I could do-“

Ron’s face softened. “It’s all right,” he repeated. “I’m just glad I can help you, since you won’t let me deck him.”

“I’ll let you know if things come to that,” said Hermione as a smile, despite all her best efforts, worked its way over her face. “And thank you, really. You’re saving me. Again.”

Without thinking, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around his middle, shamelessly allowing her cheek to land against his chest, closing her eyes and breathing him in. He smelled of grass and sweat and something sweet - likely chocolate - and she thought she’d never tire of it. 

His chin pressed into the top of her head. “You’re welcome. Although…”

She looked up at him to see his usual crooked grin. “What?”

“You’re going to have to break it to all my adoring fans,” he chuckled. “They’re going to be very disappointed to hear that I’m off the market again.”

“You’d be surprised.”


	8. The One Where They Go To Hogsmeade

Harry did not possess the same manic fervor as Oliver Wood and Angelina Johnson, his predecessors as Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, but he was clearly of the belief that a Saturday morning spent without a long, hard practice was a Saturday morning wasted. Ron had quickly grown accustomed to dragging himself out of bed with the sun and scarfing bacon sandwiches with Harry and Ginny on the walk to the pitch. Though Ron had convinced himself that it was a mere fluke that allowed him to outperform McLaggen at trials - satisfying as it had been to do so - these weekend practices always imbued him with irresistible excitement. Despite the occasional craving for a lie-in, there were far worse ways to spend a Saturday.  
  
The first Saturday in October was bright and sunny; the tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest were edged with red and gold, and the stifling humidity of summer had finally given way to crisp, clean autumn air. Conditions were perfect for flying, and this token of positivity, small as it was, carried Ron through what might have been his best practice to date; he missed not a single goal, not even the one Demelza sent flying towards the far hoop when he was wiping sweat out of his eyes. As Harry called the two new Beaters over for some additional practice at dodging their own Bludgers (though it looked like Peakes’ arm was only bruised, not broken), Ron drifted lazily down to the pitch in search of his canteen of water.  
  
He was just pausing between gulps of water when a finger poked him between his ribs, and he turned to see Ginny wearing a wide, mischievous grin.  
  
“What?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the  back of his hand.  
  
“You haven’t noticed your visitor, have you?”  
  
She pushed on his shoulder so that he faced the Gryffindor section of the stands, and, shielding his face from the golden shine of the sun, he  could just hardly make out a small figure sitting in the very top row. A small figure, he noted with a pleasant flip of his stomach, whose hair framed her face like a very fluffy halo.  
  
“Oh.” Biting back a smile - because it was silly to be so excited about something so small, wasn’t it? - Ron looked back up at Harry, who appeared to be repairing a broken nose on Cootes. “I’ll, just, er, be right back then.”  
  
He tossed his canteen onto the grass and swung a leg over his broom, kicking off into the air. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Ginny nodding her approval.  
  
As he approached, a smile broke out over Hermione’s face, and butterflies leapt to life in Ron’s stomach again. Harry had held three practices since they had resumed their - well, whatever it was - and she had been present at none of them. But she was here now, dressed in a purple Muggle jumper and jeans and beaming at him like he had just won the World Cup.  
  
Softly - as softly as possible, anyway - he landed on the bench in front of her and let his broom clatter into the space between the rows.  
  
“What’re you doing here?” he asked as he held his arms out to her. “Ginny’s watching,” he added under his breath.  
  
Hermione stood and let him envelope her. As he rested his chin atop her head, he let himself do the thing he had promised himself he wouldn’t do this time around. He let himself pretend. He let himself pretend, if only for a second, that she had come down to the pitch simply because she wanted to see him play - because she believed in him.  
  
Her grip on him loosened, and reluctantly, he released her.  
  
“Sorry,” he said with a smile. “M’all sweaty.”  
  
“It’s fine,” she said brightly, sitting back down and pushing her book bag out of the way to make room for him. “You’re doing brilliantly today.”  
  
Playfully he bumped his knee against hers. “Don’t sound so surprised.”  
  
“I’m not! Can’t I just give you a compliment?”  
  
“All right,” he relented, lips twitching. He scooted closer to her on the bench, knowing, if he had to, that he could justify it on the grounds of having an audience; Ginny looked pretty small down there on the pitch, but she still appeared to be facing in their general direction, and that was enough. “Go ahead. Tell me how brilliant I am.”  
  
She laughed and kicked up her feet, the soles of her boots resting against the bench in front of them. A pretty flush had crept into her cheeks from the cool air, and strands of curly hair had escaped from her plait; Ron had to sit on his hands to keep himself from tucking a lock behind her ear.  
  
“Harry’s having a time of it, isn’t he?” said Hermione, gesturing to the pitch where two Bludgers were menacingly circling both Beaters.  
  
“Yeah,” agreed Ron with a touch of dismay. “Well, we’ve still got a few weeks until the first match.”  
  
“Who’s it against?”  
  
“Slytherin.”

Merely speaking the word struck dread in Ron’s heart. He could still, quite clearly, hear the chorus of the original version of ‘Weasley Is Our King’ ringing in his ears.  
  
Hermione remained unfazed. “It’s just Slytherin,” she stated. “Just because it’s Gryffindor’s biggest rivalry doesn’t make them any more difficult to play.”  
  
“Just worse when we lose,” replied Ron with exaggerated cheerfulness.  
  
“All you need to do is play how you’ve played today, and you’ll be fine.”  
  
“Right,” he said, “but practice is one thing - I mean, we’re all on the same side, here. Ginny might be the best Chaser on the team but she still doesn’t actually want me to miss. And anyway-“ he gestured vaguely to the empty stands- “it’s not like there’s anyone to look like a prat in front of.”  
  
Hermione pursed her lips. “So does it help or hurt, me being here?”  
  
“Helps,” Ron was quick to say, offering her a shy smile. “Definitely helps.”  
  
The morning held so much promise, what with the perfect goalkeeping and Hermione’s appearance, that Ron felt he had to do something to capitalize on it. The things that he wanted, that had always been so wildly out of his grasp, had somehow drawn closer, attainable if he could only summon his bravery and go after them.  
  
“Oi!” Harry’s voice, magically amplified, echoed around the stadium. “Ron! Practice isn’t over!”  
  
“Duty calls,” said Ron, rising and picking up his broom.  
  
And then - and he wasn’t sure when he had become so bold or why he felt now, in the middle of Quidditch practice, was the right moment - he bent and dropped the lightest, softest, briefest kiss on her cheek.  
  
Her eyes widened as he pulled back, but there was no time to unpack this, no time to explain. It had to seem normal: to everyone around them, they were a couple, and this sort of thing was expected from them. No one would even bat an eye.  
  
So he swung his leg over his broom and kicked off into the air. He only glanced back once, and when he did, he saw her fingertips pressed to the place where his lips had been.  
  
She had kissed him on the cheek once before, just as he had been about to take the pitch for his very first Quidditch match. It had sent him into a tailspin then, and his reaction now was no different. The sun was now blinding him, putting spots into his vision, and he could hardly hear Harry over the whistling of the wind, and when a poorly-aimed Bludger grazed his shoulder, he nearly fell off his broom. All he could think of was the softness of her skin under his mouth and the light reflecting in her eyes and her leg pressed up against his. And then he’d remember that he wasn’t supposed to relish in any of these things at all, and his heart would sink like a stone, and he didn’t even care when the Quaffle whizzed past him for the sixth time.  
  
Harry dismissed the team for the day, and as the rest of them flew toward the locker rooms, Ron took off for the stands again. Hermione had already stood and was walking toward the stairs, so rather than dismounting, Ron hovered in the air beside her.  
  
“Hey,” he said urgently as she swung her bag onto her shoulder. “Erm, sorry about earlier - I just thought, y’know, people might expect-“  
  
“It’s okay,” she replied. “It wasn’t a big deal. But I still think...” She stopped in her tracks and turned to face him, nibbling her lower lip. “I still think we should have the rule about not kissing, same as before.”  
  
“Okay,” Ron agreed as his throat went dry.  
  
“I just don’t want things to be weird between us.”  
  
“Right.” He nodded, probably a little too quickly. The sudden need to restore status quo consumed him. “Er - well - I’ve gotta go clean up, but I’ll see you at lunch?”  
  
“Sure.” She gave him a little wave, her feet on the stairs pounding through his ears as he flew off again.

•••

“Really?” Harry’s upper lip curled in abject disgust. “Madam Puddifoot’s?”

“It’s romantic,” said Hermione.

“You _hate_ Madam Puddifoot’s.”

“I’ve never been to Madam Puddifoot’s,” she replied.

Privately, Ron felt that Harry’s assessment was correct, and she would indeed loathe the place, but he opted not to voice this just yet.

“It might be really nice,” Hermione added with more brightness in her voice than strictly necessary.

Harry appealed to Ron, who was astutely watching his trainers press into the frosted ground as he trod the path into Hogsmeade. “And what am I supposed to do while you’re there?”

“You could come with us,” said Ron, only to earn himself an icy glare from Hermione.

“But it’s a date,” she insisted, “we can’t bring Harry with us on our date.”

Ron heaved a great sigh and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his robes. It wasn’t a date, what he and Hermione were about to embark upon. It was a display. Nothing more and nothing less.

“It’s fine,” Harry decided in the next minute, turning his collar up against the chilly wind blowing off the surrounding mountains. “I’ll just go to the Three Broomsticks, hang out with Hagrid or something.”

“Ginny might be there,” Hermione offered brightly, though this clearly did nothing to instill a sense of optimism in Harry.

“Yeah, probably, but she’ll be with Dean.”

Ron eyed Harry with curiosity. There was a glumness there, a disappointment, that he couldn’t quite identify.

Rather than dwell on it, he bumped his shoulder into Harry’s. “So whose date do you want to third-wheel on, then?”

“It won’t be the whole day,” Hermione piped up, peeking around Ron to address Harry directly. “Just an hour or so, then we can meet up with you.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” said Harry. “I don’t want to - I mean, it’s alright if you want to, y’know, be alone together.”

Ron’s stomach fell slowly, steadily down to his feet. He did want to be alone with Hermione, desperately, but not like this. But he knew he was doing it to protect her, and he’d do anything to protect her, no matter how much it hurt him in the process.

High Street in Hogsmeade was already bustling with students; throngs of excited third-years darted between shops, too eager to see it all to remain in one place. Having acclimated themselves with the little village, however, Ron, Hermione and Harry made their way past the brightly colored storefronts and street vendors to the tea shop on the corner. Its windows were edged in lacy curtains and inside, dainty vases bearing single carnations could be seen sitting atop each and every table.

“All right,” said Harry outside the door. “I’ll see you lot in a bit.”

Ron stole a desperate glance at Hermione, then said, “you really could join us, if you want - s’not a big deal, really-“

“No, no,” Harry waved him off. “Don’t worry about it, I’m going to go find Hagrid.”

As Harry headed off down the crowded street, a sharp pang of guilt shot through Ron.

“I feel bad,” he muttered under his breath to Hermione, who was pulling open the door to the tea shop. A little bell jingled cheerfully over their heads as they entered. “He coulda stayed.”

“We’re meant to be on a _date_ ,” she hissed back before offering a wide smile to the hostess. “A table for two, please.”

Her hand locked firmly around Ron’s as they were led to the back of the little shop and shown a small, round table decorated with flowery lace. Ron had a brief flashback to Professor Umbridge’s office.

“But it isn’t a date, not really,” he continued once the hostess had left them alone with their menus. “We didn’t have to ditch him.”

“This is what couples do,” added Hermione, leaning toward him, her eyes darting around suspiciously as though she were divulging state secrets. “People expect us to come here.”

“Fine,” he mumbled as he opened the menu, which listed several different types of biscuits and at least thirty different types of tea, most of which he had never even heard of. What in the world was oolong? And dandelion, really? People actually made tea out of those little weeds? “But do we have to stay long?”

Hermione’s face went rigid behind her menu. “You could at least pretend to have fun with me here.”

“Look around you,” he replied, gesturing to the rest of the shop. A few tables away, Padma Patil and Anthony Goldstein were snogging over their shortbread biscuits. “Does this look like anywhere you and I’d ever have fun?”

But he knew the look that had come over her face now, that prim, haughty, _I’m-too-good-for-this-conversation_ sort of look, and he knew any further discussion was futile; arguing with her was occasionally like arguing with a stone wall.

He also knew he should have just gone along with it. This was where Hogwarts couples went for their dose of overdone romance; even Harry had come here with Cho Chang, albeit to disastrous results. And Hermione wasn’t asking for much. All they needed to do was hold hands atop the table and gaze longingly at each other, and word would get back to the castle in no time that Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were happier together than ever.

But his temper had already boiled within him a sharp, hot fury, and now that he had lashed back out at her - when he could have, and maybe should have, laughed at the ridiculousness of it all - he couldn’t take it back.

“So what’s the normal kind of tea?” he asked in an attempt at levity.

Hermione’s lips were set into the smallest, thinnest line Ron had ever seen. “Just get the orange pekoe.”

“Orange?” he repeated skeptically.

“It doesn’t actually taste like oranges!” she snapped so furiously that Ron recoiled.

“Fine.” His face grew hot. “Sorry I’m not a bloody tea expert.”

Silence ensued, during which Hermione pretended to peruse the pastries side of the menu. He knew she wouldn’t order anything - sweets would please him more than they would her, and clearly he wasn’t on her good side today - so he made another attempt at offering the proverbial olive branch.

“Listen,” he whispered, an elbow on the table as he angled closer to her. “We can’t fight in here.”

“Seems we can. Quite well, actually.”

“No, we can’t, because if people hear that we were fighting, they’ll think we’re about to break up again, and McLaggen’ll go back to bothering you. And if that happens,” Ron reasoned, “I’m gonna have to hit him.”

Hermione considered this. “Do not hit anyone.”

“Why, ‘cause that’s your job?” he ventured, fighting a smile.

Though she rolled her eyes, her resolve was clearly breaking. “I suppose you have a point.”

“I know I do.”

“Oh, all right,” she sighed. “Give me your hand, then.”

The resignation in her voice stung more than Ron expected. He was less pleased than anyone to be sitting in the explosion of pink and lace known as Madam Puddifoot’s, but surely these displays of affection weren’t as brutal as Hermione was making them out to be?

But then, there was no way she was appreciating them the way he was…

He dragged his hand off of his lap and clasped it around hers, which lay expectantly on the table between them; her fingers were small and cool inside his.

Ron’s voice was stuck inside his throat. There had to be something, anything, that he could say, but his mind had gone blank. Everyone around them always mistook their bickering and debates for anger and fighting, but that wasn’t true; it was just part of their friendship. But in those times, those rare times, when she was truly cross with him, it twisted his stomach into knots.

It was probably best just to say nothing at all. Judging by the tension in her hand, any attempt at conversation would quickly turn south, and he’d meant it when he’d said that they couldn’t be seen fighting. But more than that, he hated fighting with her. Debates made a fire light in her eyes, and he thought most days that he would challenge her on the color of the sky if he thought he could watch the passion rise in her face, watch the energy flood out of her. But this terrible silence between them was like pulling a plug and watching it all drain away.

Before he could make an attempt to ease the tension between them, a squat, matronly old witch came to their table to take their orders. She beamed at them and their interlocked hands, to which Hermione could only smile thinly back.

Yeah. Probably best to just shut up, grit his teeth, and get through it.

So they drank their tea, mostly in silence, though the other couples in the shop sure made a racket with their whispered words and giggles and constant snogging. Ron ignored the death glare he received from Hermione when he wrapped up an uneaten scone and tucked it into his pocket (but there was no sense letting it go to waste when he knew he’d want to eat it later, once his stomach stopped churning with anxiety), and finally they were paying the bill and stepping out into the blessedly crisp fall air. Ron took a long, deep breath, filling his lungs and expelling the stifling scent of floral perfume from his nose.

“I hope that wasn’t too painful for you,” said Hermione, her tone clipped as they began to walk, not touching, back down High Street to the Three Broomsticks.

“No, it was fine,” he replied, trying not to be too obvious about it as he savored the cool wind on his cheeks. With a gloved hand, he pointed down the street. “D’y’wanna stop in Honeydukes real quick?”

He had expected a scowl and some sort of comment on the horrors of sugar - along with perhaps a reminder that he had put no fewer than six cubes of sugar into his tea - but something strange washed over her features, something more akin to hurt than annoyance.

“What happened to not leaving Harry on his own?”

“He might actually be in there,” Ron reasoned, though a fresh wave of guilt shredded at his stomach - had he actually let his craving for Chocolate Frogs override his concern for his friend? “But yeah, you’re right, we’ll stop on the way back.”

Without a word, Hermione forged ahead through the crowded street, her head bent against the cold.

The Three Broomsticks was just as warm and aromatic as Madam Puddifoot’s had been, but in the most welcoming of ways; Ron could almost taste the butterbeer that he planned to have in hand in the next couple of minutes. As Hermione stood on tiptoe to survey the crowded pub, Ron spotted Harry seated in a back booth. Alone.

If this day kept up the way it had been going, Ron was going to end up with an ulcer.

Without thinking, Ron placed a hand on Hermione’s back. “I see him,” he said, giving her a gentle nudge, “he’s just back there-“

She had apparently made it a point not to speak directly to him, because she simply headed in the direction of the booth. Harry, who had a half-empty mug of butterbeer in front of him, looked as though he was teetering on the edge of an eruption.

There had been no point, Ron thought miserably, no point at all in their ill-fated venture to the tea shop. Were they so arrogant as to believe that others might be keeping tabs on this farce of a relationship? Would anyone have thought it strange, or even noticed, if they had just spent the afternoon with their friend as planned?

“Harry,” said Hermione with concern, sliding into the booth and pulling off her hat, “what’s wrong?”

Her hair stood up like she’d stuck her finger in a socket (at least, the way he imagined it had looked the time his dad had done), and despite everything, Ron found himself smiling fondly at her as he seated himself beside her. She didn’t have the slightest clue how adorable she was, and it just made her more so.

“That greasy git Mundungus,” said Harry immediately, his face darkening. “He thinks he can just sell Sirius’ things on the street, like it’s - like it’s nothing-“

He broke off and picked up his glass, about to take a sip, before reconsidering and letting it land back on the table with a dull thud.

“What are you talking about?” asked Ron, “what happened?”

Harry launched immediately into a play-by-play of his encounter with Mundungus Fletcher outside the Three Broomsticks, his rage reigniting at the recollection. He had come into the pub afterwards, hoping to find Hagrid or some other friends from school, but had only succeeded in briefly conversing with Professor Slughorn, who had excitedly reminded him about his upcoming Christmas party.

“But anyway,” he finished as he swirled the remaining butterbeer idly around in his glass, “how was your date?”

“It was fine,” said Hermione hurriedly. “The tea there isn’t very good.”

“Yeah, but people don’t go there for the tea, do they?” said Ron. “Though, there’s got to be better places to snog - it smells like a garden threw up in there-“

“Fine,” blurted Hermione with a slightly manic energy, as though she couldn’t quite control her own voice. “Point taken. We won’t ever go there again.”

What had once been cozy, sweet-smelling air inside the pub now felt oppressive and hot; all the blood in Ron’s body rose to the surface of his skin.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” said Ron, stretching his legs out under the table. “If you want to go again, of course I’ll go with you-“

She shook her head. “You don’t have to.”

Ron could do no more than blink at her; there was none of her usual fire in her voice, just a quiet resignation.

Harry sat up straight and tossed the last of his butterbeer into the back of his throat. “I know you two just got here, but do you mind if I just go back to the castle? The day’s been kind of a bust, is all-“

“We’ll go with you,” said Hermione at once, and Ron couldn’t help but agree; the outing had been doomed for failure from the start.

So they pulled on gloves and hats and scarves again as they left the pub, a few paces behind fellow Gryffindor Quidditch teammate Katie Bell and her friend Leanne. Nobody spoke much - evidently, spirits were low all around - and Ron kept his focus on his own feet, careful to keep his footing as they walked along the icy path back up to Hogwarts. He was so lost in his thoughts, sorting through the guilt and the anger and the confusion of the afternoon that he hardly noticed the raised voices coming from further up the path. It wasn’t until Harry nudged him on the arm that he looked up, just in time to see Katie’s body rising into the air.

•••

Once, during their third year at Hogwarts, Ron had asked Hermione why flying on a broom made her so nervous when she would, without any hesitation, board an aeroplane that flew much higher in the sky, for much longer, without the aid of magic at all. And once she had finished detailing the incredibly complex science that allowed these massive tubes of metal to circumnavigate the planet, she’d started explaining about flight attendants. About how, in instances when the average passenger might fear that the plane was ready to plummet thousands of feet directly into the earth, the flight attendants always remained completely calm. They’d flown thousands of times before, and they were the perfect reminder that nothing was as dangerous as it seemed.

He hadn’t thought about it in ages, but then McGonagall had dropped by the Gryffindor common room to inform the house that a strict curfew was being imposed and that Aurors would be patrolling the castle halls that night, not prefects. Not even when a basilisk has been tormenting the school had prefect rounds been canceled, and it was this, more than anything, that deposited a solid pit of fear in Ron’s stomach.

Furious that nobody would buy into his Draco Malfoy theory, Harry had gone to bed early. As the night wore on, most of the students followed suit, choosing to worry about Katie in the privacy of their dorms rather than the common room, until just Ron and Hermione were left. She had spent most of the evening curled up in an armchair, her nose buried in a book, patently ignoring everyone around her. And so Ron let himself admire her. It was his only chance to do so without anyone else around.

He thought maybe it had been less painful when they’d called it off altogether. When he didn’t have her at all - no brushing of fingertips, no hands resting lazily on the other’s thigh, no walking her to class and departing with a long, tight hug. Having her halfway ached more. He was so close to what he wanted, and yet it remained sorely out of his grasp. He couldn’t kiss her, and he couldn’t touch her when they were alone, and under no circumstances could he tell her how he really felt, because she had already stated, in no uncertain terms, that none of this was real. That it was just for show, a means to an end. She spoke of it like he was doing her some huge favor, like this was a sacrifice on his end.

For a time, he had resigned himself to being happy with what he could get… but he wasn’t sure he could anymore.

He extended his leg and nudged her foot with his.

No reaction.

“Hey,” he attempted next. “Hermione.”

Nothing. Not one single indication that she was even aware of him, that she was aware of a world outside of _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6_. Nothing, except her two front teeth sinking ever so slightly into her lower lip.

“So you’re just not talking to me now?” he asked.

Her head popped up and her eyes locked on his - eyes, Ron was startled to see, that were brimming with tears.

“What’s the matter?” He couldn't keep the alarm out of his voice. “I know you’re worried about Katie-“

“No,” she shot back. “I mean - yes - of course I am-“ The thud of her book slamming shut bounced around the room, and she sat up straight, meeting his eyes head-on. “I don’t know why our - our date, or whatever it was - why you hated it so much.”

Everything about that afternoon in Hogsmeade, all the anger and the guilt and the confusion - everything that Ron had forgotten in the wake of Katie and the cursed necklace, came bubbling back out of whatever deep corner of his psyche in which he’d hidden it.

“I didn’t,” he replied, bewildered, “but you didn’t even speak to me all afternoon.”

“Right,” she snapped back, “because you made it clear you’d rather spend the day with an acromantula than with me.”

“I-“ Of everything he was expecting to hear, it wasn’t that. “No. Not at all, but do you think anyone actually cared that we went to that bloody tea shop? D’you think anyone even noticed?”

“They might have done,” said Hermione weakly, tears spilling down her cheeks. “And it didn’t have to be a big deal, but you just wanted to complain the entire time.”

“Look,” he said, inching to the edge of his seat, “I didn’t mean to be an arsehole, but this whole arrangement, it’s not exactly easy for me.”

Every time he had this conversation in his head, lying in his four-poster and staring at the canopy above, he was eloquent and articulate and the whole ordeal usually ended with them locked in a passionate embrace. But now he was here, right on the precipice of it, and the words were escaping him.

“Fine, then,” she spat, swiping uselessly at her eyes. “Then if it’s so awful for you-“

“I never said it was _awful_ -“

“Then let’s just break up again and you can go-“ She broke off with a shuddering gasp. “Go and date Lavender Brown, if that’s what you want.”

He blinked at her, baffled. “What - I - that’s not - I know you don’t seem to mind it,” he managed finally, “but I hate lying-“

“I don’t like it any more than you do-“

“Really?” The anger brewing inside Ron felt shaky, unstable, ready to explode at any second. “Because you don’t have a problem lying to your parents about everything-“

Immediately her face flushed a rageful shade of red. “It’s not lying, it’s just not telling them everything-“

“That’s the same thing!”

“You know as well as I do that if I did tell them, I wouldn’t be at school right now-“ A new sense of indignance seemed to take over her. “Not that it’s any of your business, anyway-“

“But we are lying to _everyone_ ,” he said, “we’re even lying to Harry.” He gestured with a wild hand in the general direction of the dormitories. “And I don’t lie to him, all right, I just don’t.”

“But it’s a harmless lie, it’s not hurting anyone-“

“We’re his _best friends_ ,” Ron reminded her. His entire body had begun to thrum with pent-up energy, and he stood, desperate to release it. “You know he doesn’t trust that many people, but he trusts us and we’ve been lying to him for weeks.”

Hermione stood too, approaching him. “It isn’t for much longer,” she said, her irritation giving way to a beseeching tone. “It’s just until the Christmas party-“

“That’s two months away-“

“Maybe he’ll get bored of me sooner, and move on-“

“I just don’t think I can keep doing this.”

 _Shit. Fuck. Shit_. None of this was coming out right. In all his daydreams, he managed to tell her the truth; he was brave enough to tell her that he wanted all of her, for real, forever, and she would confess that she felt the same.

But now they stood here, squaring off, and he knew now that none of it was possible. That it was the stuff of daydreams and fantasies for a reason.

“I know it’s not ideal,” she said softly, blinking back a fresh barrage of tears, “and I hate lying to Harry too, but I wouldn’t ask if I thought there was any better option.”

With a sudden shocking clarity, he finally understood. He knew now, in a way he hadn’t fully grasped before, that she saw this as a wonderful act of friendship on his part. And he also knew the way that Cormac McLaggen looked at her, like she was something to be consumed, and it set his teeth on edge.

If he could protect her, he would. That had never been up for debate.

“Okay,” he relented with a little nod. “All right.”

Hermione swallowed thickly, fingers twisting in front of her. “Thank you.”

“All right, c’mere,” he said, forcing levity into the room, holding his arms out invitingly toward her. “Bring it in.”

She closed the gap between them in an instant, her head against his chest, as a vice squeezed so firmly around his heart that he thought it might crumble into a thousand pieces.

“M’sorry I was a git,” he said, hugging her back.

“I’m sorry too.” Her voice was muffled against the fabric of his robes. “You were right about Madam Puddifoot’s, anyway.”

Despite it all, Ron laughed. “Yeah. I know I was.”


	9. The One With The Transfiguration Essay

“Here.” Hermione set a pile of dandelion roots and a knife on the table in front of Ron. “It says we need six ounces of roots, cut into two-centimeter strips.”

“Okay,” said Ron, lips twitching, “but what does Harry’s book have to say about it?”

Hermione picked up a set of measuring spoons and her phial of seaweed extract. “These,” she said firmly, poking the page of her pristine copy of _Advanced Potion-Making,_ “are the officially sanctioned directions-“

“Right,” said Ron around a laugh, arranging the roots into tidy rows on his cutting board. “But his version got him that bottle of Felix, so-“

“So nothing.” Hermione trained her attention on measuring out a spoonful of murky greenish-brown liquid. “So we’re going to follow the instructions and our potion will be perfect.”

“Mmhmm.” 

Ron made a big show of peeking over at the next table, where Harry was very surreptitiously altering the potion that he was concocting with Ernie MacMillan.

“Ron!”

Hermione gave a tug on his sleeve and he fell back onto his stool, laughing, the knife in his hands clattering onto the table.

Slughorn, his robes straining around his massive middle, approached. “Now, now,” he boomed jovially, “I’m not one to stand in the way of young love, but these Soothing Solutions won’t brew themselves!”

A bit sheepish, Ron picked up his blade, cheeks going pink.

“Miss Granger,” continued Slughorn, “you’ll keep Rupert here in line, won’t you?”

Ron’s face deepened to red as Slughorn peered into the cauldron and gave a nod of approval.

“You might need a backup plan,” Ron muttered as he sliced into the dandelion roots, leaving a deep groove in the table.

Hermione paused, her hand hovering over the cauldron. “What?”

“For the Christmas party,” he clarified, words forced and clipped. “M’not entirely sure he’ll remember that I go to school here.”

His front teeth sank deep into his lower lip, eyes fixed pointedly on the task before him. The cauldron between them boiled merrily away, its bold vermilion shade deepening into crimson with each bubble that burst. It was burning - she should have added the seaweed extract by now  - and yet, watching Ron, Hermione could not find it in herself to care.

“He’s about a hundred years old,” said Hermione reasonably, dumping the seaweed extract into the potion and stirring four times clockwise, just as prescribed. It was supposed to turn purple, now, but it looked more burgundy than anything. “He probably forgets everyone’s names.”

“Never forgets yours.” He set a few slices of dandelion root onto the scale, frowning when it didn’t even register the weight. “Sorry,” he added. “It isn’t your fault I’m so forgettable-“

“You’re not.”

“Huh?”

She could backtrack, take it back, smooth over the moment, change the subject - or she could just say what she meant for once. “You’re not forgettable-“

But Ron hissed, then, tossing his knife in the general direction of the cauldron, and Hermione caught a glimpse of gleaming red blood on his finger, just before he brought it to his mouth.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling his hand away just long enough to look at his injury and cringe. “Fuck-“ 

“Oh, let me see,” said Hermione. She grabbed him by the wrist to bring his hand in front of her face. A gash ran right along the crease of the first knuckle on his pointer finger; blood pooled on his fair skin. “It doesn’t look too deep-“

“Yeah, well, it sure feels deep-“

“You just need some dittany,” Hermione determined. “I’ve got some in my bag-“

And as Ron used the sleeve of his robes to stave off the bleeding, Hermione knelt down by her bag.

“You keep dittany with you?”

“Of course I do,” she replied, coming up with a small glass bottle and a cloth. “And see, it’s coming quite in handy, now give me your hand.”

She sat back down on her stool and took his proffered hand in hers. Blood still flowed freely from the wound on his finger, and she wrapped the cloth around it as she unstoppered the bottle of dittany. Their potion had surely burned now, ruined beyond repair, but Hermione could only spare it a passing thought, nothing more. She couldn’t pinpoint quite when it had happened, but slowly - over weeks and months and maybe years - Ron had crept into the forefront of her consciousness, and everything else paled in comparison to him. 

The dittany smoked and hissed as it sealed off the wound, leaving only a thin pink line in its wake. 

“All better,” she said, releasing his hand. “But we’re going to need new dandelion roots.”

“Yeah?” 

“The recipe doesn’t call for wizard’s blood at all, does it?”

“Maybe it does,” said Ron with a playful, crooked grin, “and I planned all of that.”

“Somehow I don’t think so.” Finally she took a moment to peer in at their fledgling potion. It had, inexplicably, turned pink. “Not that it could get much worse.”

Ron goggled at her. “You’re not bothered by this?”

“I’d rather have a ruined potion than have you bleed out all over everything,” she said, truthfully. “Just because I care about school doesn’t mean-“ 

She broke off, clearing her throat, and reached for the knife to clean it. Her moment of openness had passed, evidently, and now she couldn’t explain to him that she cared about him more than making a perfect potion. More than anything.

“We should probably try to finish it anyway, though,” she declared, fixing her eyes on her book to determine their next step. “Better than nothing.”

She started cutting up the dandelion roots herself, feeling Ron’s eyes on her the whole time.

When class concluded, they filled a phial with their attempt at a Soothing Solution and brought it up to the front of the class. Harry and Ernie’s effort, of course, was perfect: a shimmering, translucent lilac. Ron and Hermione’s looked for all the world like clotted cream. 

“Sorry,” said Ron as they followed Harry into the courtyard a few minutes later for their morning break. “About the potion, I mean, it was a bloody disaster.”

“It was a bit bloody,” Hermione agreed, earning herself a jocular nudge on the shoulder. “But it’s not your fault, we were both working on it.”

“But if I hadn’t cut my finger off-“

“You didn’t cut it _off_ -“

“Yeah, but still.” 

Almost on instinct, they settled into a row of stone benches at the corner of the courtyard, Ron between Hermione and Harry. Having observed their bickering, Harry had his face buried in the back pages of his Potions textbook and was squinting intently at the minuscule writing in the corner of a page. 

“I should have paid better attention,” said Hermione, bag in her lap. 

“Which you could have done if I hadn’t-“

“Will you stop it?” she demanded, frustration peaking. “Stop blaming yourself for everything. It isn’t your fault or mine, it was just - just an off day, I suppose.”

“Right.” Ron shifted in his seat, angling his knees toward her so that Harry could no longer see his face. His eyes flickered briefly around the courtyard. “So - so we’re all right, then, right?”

“Yes.” Hermione withdrew her Herbology essay from her bag to give it a final read-through. “I’m not exactly used to getting Ds on anything, but other than that I’ve got perfect marks in Potions, so as long as I do well on all the exams-“

“No, no.” Ron bent a knee so that his calf laid against the bench and leaned toward her. “I don’t mean that.”

“Then what?”

He gave the courtyard another scan. “After this weekend, I mean.”

There had been little news on Katie Bell as the weekend had slogged to a close. All they had learned, through the wildly active Hogwarts rumor mill, was that she was in St. Mungo’s, still alive, and still unconscious. The mysterious circumstances around her cursing, naturally, had set Hermione’s mind racing to make sense of it, but she was not inclined to somehow make the incident about herself, and Ron knew her well enough to know that.

“Again, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Just-“ Ron lowered his face so close to hers that she could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, voice dropping to the faintest whisper. “What we talked about. In the common room.”

“Oh, that.” She sat up a bit straighter. “Yes, of course.”

“I was just thinking about it more, y’know, yesterday - and today - and I-“ Anxiously he rubbed a finger under his nose. “I just hope I didn’t, erm, hurt your feelings or anything.”

Hermione blinked at him, her lips pursed, contemplating. There was no good way to answer. She could lie, and tell him that no, of course it hadn’t stung when he had told her what a challenge it was to pretend to be her boyfriend, that it hadn’t gutted her to hear that he wanted to stop. Or she could tell the truth, but she thought it wasn’t fair to him if she did. There was no sense in telling him that her heart had cracked and splintered at his words. It wasn’t his fault if he didn’t feel the way she did. 

“I knew what you meant,” she said finally. “It’s fine.”

“Okay,” he replied, relief apparent on his face. “Good, ‘cause I didn’t want you to think that it makes me sick or something, this whole thing.”

“It’s fine,” she repeated, the crack in her heart deepening just a little bit more.

•••

_Meet me in the library._

Five words. Just five words, and yet they held infinite potential. Ron had slipped the note into her hand on his way to Quidditch practice, and it had taken her a second, as she had watched him go, to quell the excitement that rose at the brush of his fingertips along her palm enough to actually read it. He was just trying to keep up the charade, to do something that was distinctly couple-y, and what better than to pass her a note? For all anyone else knew, it was a love letter, filled with flowery language and confessions of deep affection. 

It was, however, an unusual request, particularly from Ron. He had never felt the inclination to surround oneself with books the way Hermione did, and he usually hunkered down in the common room with Harry to complete his homework. Most likely, she thought with dismay, he simply wanted her help with an essay.

So she went on castle rounds - she was paired, tonight, with Hannah Abbott of Hufflepuff, with whom she had always gotten on well - and tried not to think about it too much. She wasn’t sure what she thought was going to happen once she did make it to the library, anyway. Ron had made it quite plain that all of this was just an act of friendship from him, a way of protecting her. The nicest, most drawn out, convoluted favor he could do for her. 

Still, she didn’t imagine he would be surrounded by the entire Quidditch team when she arrived, and that, at the very least, had to count for something.

Rounds were uneventful - with Aurors also patrolling, students were less inclined to mischief - and just before eight in the evening, Hermione parted ways with Hannah just outside the Great Hall. She had none of her books or assignments with her, but opted to head directly to the library anyway. If Ron was planning on actually studying, he would presumably have brought his own things. And if not… she shook off the thought. It was foolish to let herself daydream like that. The only thing she had ever gotten from it was a fracture in her heart: almost invisible, but painful all the same.

Madame Pince did not acknowledge her as she hauled open the heavy wooden door to the library and made her way to the maze of stacks. So close to curfew, one could have heard a pin drop, and Hermione’s steps rang out against the marble floor as she walked. She had a favorite table, tucked away in a back corner next to the books on Transfiguration Theory, and it was there that she saw Ron, with damp hair, hunched over the _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6_.

“Hi,” she said quietly as she approached. His head popped up, the tension on his face relaxing into a smile. “How was practice?”

“Not great,” he shrugged as she slid into the chair next to his. “So now Harry wants to have another one tomorrow, since the match is on Saturday.” He sighed. “And I know it’s due in the morning, but I still haven’t finished that essay on mammal-to-reptile Transfiguration, and-“ 

“And you want help?” she asked knowingly.

“Please?” He extended a big, calloused hand and gently grasped her wrist. “I don’t even want to think about what McGonagall’ll do to me when I fail her class _and_ lose the match for the team-“

“You won’t lose,” said Hermione, sounding more confident than she felt. “And of course I’ll help you, what do you have so far?”

Ron let go of her wrist and handed her a sheet of parchment. As he raked his fingers through his hair, the scent of his shampoo wafted through the musty air.

Hermione forced herself to focus on the essay in front of her. It read:

_Ron Weasley_

_Year 6_

_Gryffindor_

_4th Nov 1996_

_Common Mistakes in Mammal-Reptile Transfiguration and How to Avoid Them_

_1._

The rest of the parchment was blank.

“You haven’t even started!”

“I know,” Ron groaned, dropping his forehead onto the table. “That’s why I need you-“ He turned his face toward hers, cheek still smashed against smooth wood. “Need your help, I mean. ‘Cause if I knew how to avoid all the mistakes, I wouldn’t keep making them, would I?”

“It’ll be fine,” said Hermione. She scooted her chair closer to him and tugged the book out from under his collapsed form. “Why don’t we just start by listing all the mistakes?”

“Be here all night if I do that,” he mumbled.

“What? No, she only wants the top five things - and there’s a bit of leeway there, actually, I think if you’ve got five reasonable things and good explanations for how to fix them, you should get full marks-“ 

But Ron was plainly not listening: his eyes were fixed on a vague, distant point. Her initial annoyance - he had asked her for help, hadn’t he? - was almost immediately quashed by a great concern.

“Was practice really that bad?” she asked gently.

“I can’t talk about it,” he said, though he picked his head up from the table. “If I think about it too long, I’ll be sick again.” His brows rose toward his hairline. “And don’t say it’s just Quidditch.”

“I wasn’t going to.” She pushed the sheet of parchment back in front of him. “Let’s just do the essay, then you’ll have one less thing to worry about.”

“Yeah, all right.” 

Ron picked up his quill, rolling it back and forth between his thumb and pointer finger, and reverted his attention back on his book. Under the table, Hermione could feel his leg jiggling. She didn’t have to know him as well as she did to know that he could not focus a bit.

“So - so what’s the first mistake, then?” Hermione began.

“Last time I did it, the guinea pig still had scales instead of fur,” said Ron. “So that’s probably one, innit?”

“Yes, exactly! And I’m positive the book says what to do in that instance, here-“

She leaned toward him, the scent of his hair flooding her nose again, as she peered at the tiny print on the page. 

“So it says, _‘one must not simply envision the appearance of the animal, but must focus on texture as well_ ’,” Ron read. “‘ _All five senses must be engaged_.’”

He poked his quill into the inkwell on the table and began to write, and Hermione, so intent on watching him, could not find it within herself to lean away. She didn’t necessarily have to; this was the perfect excuse to be right up in his space, to breathe him in. To pretend that this wasn’t just about an essay.

He paused and turned to face her, a loose smile breaking on his face. She could almost count the freckles on his nose, he was so close.

“You don’t actually need help, do you?” said Hermione. “You just need someone to make you buckle down and do it.”

Guilt flashed over his features. “Maybe. You just make it easier to concentrate, it’s like - like anyone could probably sit me down and watch me and make me write the essay, y’know? But you…” He pressed his lips together, as though determining what best to say. “You block everything else out.”

Shakily, Hermione nodded; she could not have made her voice work to save her own life.

“So,” continued Ron, as though things were completely normal, as though the charge passing between them had never existed at all. “Mistake number two… only changing part of it?”

She nodded again as the scratching of the quill filled the room.

•••

Madam Pince evicted them less than an hour later, at which time Ron decided that he could finish his essay during his breakfast the following day. Through the quiet of the corridors, they returned to the Gryffindor common room, walking so closely that the backs of their fingers brushed with every other step. Hermione wondered how many times they had traversed these halls together, while on rounds or on their way to class, with something unspoken between them. It had to be more than she could count, more than she would ever know. The way she felt for him, sometimes she thought it had always been there, and she simply had not recognized it for what it was.

But she knew, now. 

When they stepped through the portrait hole, they found the common room mostly empty, save for a few of the older students. This small group included Harry, who sat on one of the sofas near the fire, a Quidditch playbook open on his lap. As Ron took up residence in his usual armchair, Hermione fell onto the sofa beside Harry.

“You lot finish that essay?” asked Harry, knowing eyes darting between the two of them.

“Just about,” said Ron. “It was time for a break, though - hey,” he added suddenly to Hermione. “What’re you doing all the way over there?”

He gave an inviting little jerk of his head and patted his thigh, and Hermione’s stomach gave an odd swooping sensation. She rose, taking a few steps toward him only to be pulled by the waist onto his lap. 

Ron nodded with satisfaction. “Much better.”

It was just for show, she told herself. He was just keeping up his end of the bargain, keeping up appearances for everyone else. But even so, his arms were around her waist and his chest was against her back, and she settled into him, allowing her head to loll onto his shoulder.

Sometimes, in these little moments of closeness - when Ron would link his hand with hers on their way to breakfast or wrap his arms tight around her in greeting - she felt her adrenaline spike from the simple thrill of being near him. And yet other times, it was like a calm settled over her. Cozying up with him like this, with their bodies pressed together and the rhythmic thud of his heart against her spine, she couldn’t imagine anything that made more sense.

And he had to feel it too, didn’t he? There was no stiffness in his joints as he sat with her, no indication of any discomfort. As he talked with Harry, his voice relaxed and easy as it rumbled out of his throat, the very tips of his fingers edged just under the hem of her jumper. Slowly, methodically, he stroked the skin of her hip with two fingers. Nobody else noticed; truth be told, she wasn’t even sure _he_ knew that he was doing it. 

But it meant something. It had to. 

And so she focused on it, letting it fill her up, pushing everything else out. She let this optimism - and what a rare thing to experience these days, optimism - wash peacefully over her as she closed her eyes. Ron’s voice was still low in her ear, and he held her so soft, so secure, that she thought she’d do anything if she could just live in this moment, in this knowledge, that maybe she really could have what she wanted.

•••

Her neck ached. She picked her head up from where it rested - _not_ her pillow, interestingly - and arched it, trying to release the tightness. As she did, she became aware of the living, breathing mass beside her, and opened her eyes to see Ron’s, gazing right back at her.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

She had slid off of his lap somewhat, but her legs remained draped over his, and he had an arm wrapped around her shoulder. The fire in the hearth had dwindled down to mere embers, casting them in shadow. Part of her - most of her - all of her, really - wanted simply to bury her face back into the warm crook of his neck and drift off again in the security of his arms. 

“S’alright,” he said quietly, the faintest hint of a smile on his face. “Didn’t want to disturb you.”

Though they were alone, he hadn’t made the slightest attempt to move; one hand still rested on her knee, fingertips dangerously close to hers. Hermione made to sit up, only to wince as a stab of pain shot through the kink in her neck. 

“Here.” 

Ron shifted his hand, running it over her shoulder and up the back of her neck. The pads of his fingers pressed into the knotted muscle, prompting gooseflesh to spring up along her skin. She couldn’t help it: a shuddering sigh fell from her lips at his touch.

“Is it helping?” he asked hopefully, still gently kneading the base of her neck. 

Hermione nodded, unwilling to disrupt the hush in the room. In the dim, wavering light, she could just barely make out the lines of his features, but she knew, with absolute certainty, that his face had drawn very near to hers. 

Very near.

“Yeah,” she managed. “Thanks.”

The very tip of Ron’s tongue snuck out to wet his lips. “Anything.”

Hermione lifted her chin up, the better to see him, and the end of her nose grazed his. A faint puff of his breath crossed over her lips as the space between them narrowed, then closed completely.

Their mouths merely brushed at first, lightly, then locked together completely. It was happening, really happening, she was kissing him, kissing _Ron_ , finally, and the current passing between them was so powerful that she froze, overwhelmed, before she could come to herself enough to respond.

His lips nudged and bumped against hers with a gut-wrenching tenderness. No urgency, no desperation, just the two of them, and when his fingers sank into her hair with his thumb on her temple, she nearly melted into a puddle right on top of him. 

With a shaking gasp, he broke away from her, looking as shell-shocked as she felt. Her mind raced for something to say, only to come up short: what did one say, really, after having just kissed one’s best friend - and fake boyfriend - for the very first time? Where would she even begin?

He smiled at her, a wide, dazzling sort of smile that she didn’t think she’d ever seen from him before. 

“So.” He sounded like he’d just run a mile.

“So,” she repeated. “It’s late.”

Of all things. Of all things, that was what she chose to say? Ron would think she hated kissing him, that she was looking for an escape-

“Yeah,” he agreed, still smiling. “Don’t want Dobby barging in, do we?”

“No, I suppose not.”

As she beamed back at him - her mouth seemed stuck that way, not that she had any complaints - he gently moved her legs so that her feet touched the floor. Grasping her hand, he pulled her up to stand, so close to him that their torsos touched. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Of course.”

She took a step toward the stairs, away from him, but their hands were still linked and he pulled her playfully back, then bent and kissed her squarely on the lips.

“G’night.”

Letting go of him ached, physically ached, but she forced herself up the flight of stairs to her dormitory. All was quiet as she crept into her room, fumbling in the dark for her pajamas. So intense was the giddiness rushing through her that she could focus on nothing but the feel of Ron’s lips, his hands in her hair, his all-consuming smile. Slipping into bed, she drew the hangings shut and settled herself beneath the duvet, smiling unabashedly up at the canopy.

She could still taste his lips on hers.


	10. The One With The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to everyone for your amazing responses to the last chapter! I want to note that this chapter contains quotes borrowed directly from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. This shouldn’t need saying, but obviously I’m not taking credit for anything recognizable as JKR’s words. 
> 
> Now for this next one, I need to ask you to do two things: a) trust me and b) remember that Ron is an unreliable narrator. Hope you enjoy!

He had done it. It had taken five years and a fake relationship to do it, but he’d done it. He’d kissed her. Or maybe she had kissed him; he didn’t know, and he didn’t care. What mattered was that it had happened. And he had no frame of reference, but every single one of his expectations had been far exceeded. He actually didn’t understand how it could be so good - it was just two mouths touching, that was all - but he didn’t want to question it. He just wanted to live in it, to put that memory in a Pensieve and dive right in. 

There was no way he could sleep, now. His four dorm mates, oblivious to the fact that his life had just irrevocably changed - it was not every day that a bloke kissed Hermione Granger - snored at varying volumes in their beds around him. Ron had somehow managed to find his pajamas in the dark and pull them on but in the confines of his four-poster, he could settle to nothing. The idea of his mind quieting enough for him to drift off was laughable. His foot jiggled under the comforter as he played it in his mind, over and over, never tiring of it. 

What he needed now was a strategy. A way to keep this moment from slipping by him and becoming something weird in their past that they never discussed, like that blowout row after the Yule Ball. And even if bloody Harry was always around, he would have to find a way to get her alone, as soon as he possibly could. His imagination snowballed: he saw himself confessing his feelings for her, and her diving into his arms, kissing him senseless, proclaiming that she felt the same, that she always had. Saturday was the match, and they’d win now, surely. Riding a high like this, he felt like he could win the World Cup without even breaking a sweat. That he’d ever been intimidated by the louts on the Slytherin team was laughable. He had kissed Hermione. Everything he wanted, everything he had ever dreamed of, lay tantalizingly within reach. 

He licked his lips; he could still taste her.

•••

At some point, he fell asleep, into restless, fragmented, vivid dreams, dreams of Hermione and her mouth and her hands and her - her everything. And after what felt like about a split second since he had closed his eyes, Harry was shaking him awake. Ron knew he was talking, but the words didn’t bother to stick in his fuzzy, sleep-addled brain.

“Get _up_.” Harry gave another forceful shove to Ron’s shoulders. “Breakfast’s almost over.”

At this, Ron pried his eyes open, despite the adamance of his lids to slam shut. Harry stood over him, fully dressed, rucksack slung over one shoulder, looking thoroughly annoyed.

“Why didn’t you wake me up before?” Ron mumbled, forcing himself into a sitting position and shoving the comforter off of his legs. 

“I tried,” said Harry, “but you kept falling back asleep.”

Ron stood, the stone floor cool beneath his bare feet, as his brain kicked into gear. 

Hermione. _Hermione._ His heart thundered wildly in his chest at the thought of her, at the recollection of those blissful and all-too-fleeting minutes alone with her in the common room. He’d kissed her - twice - and now here he was, oversleeping, yanking on his trousers and pulling on his socks inside out and not bothering to comb his hair, because there just wasn’t _time_ \- what if she was waiting for him? What if she took this as a slight, that he didn’t spring out of bed at the crack of dawn?

The problem was, he had wanted to. He had imagined that he’d find her in the common room, in the morning before anyone else was awake - she was always up early to read or work ahead on homework - and that was when he would tell her how he felt. In the post-kiss adrenaline rush, waking up at dawn had posed no problem at all, given that he hadn’t expected himself to fall asleep at all. Only he had, and now nothing was going to plan, and he kept nearly strangling himself to death with his necktie.

On his way to the Great Hall, he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the rain-splattered corridor windows. His hair was messier than Harry’s - a true feat, he could almost be impressed - and his face was flushed in patches. Behind his eyes, a dull ache had commenced.

Hermione would have to be insane to want him.

She was there, of course, at the Gryffindor table, with a book open in front of her. She had one knee pulled up to her chest, her foot braced against the bench, and her eyes were cast down at whatever she was reading. Her plate was empty.

And all his big dreams, all the visions he’d had of his great proclamation of love, now seemed like something from someone else’s life. What had he been thinking? That she really wanted him, him and his messy clothes and the dark circles around his eyes and his inability to get just one thing right? 

“Well, finally,” said Hermione as they reached the table, letting her foot drop to the floor. “You’ve got about three minutes before class.”

Harry immediately settled onto the bench and helped himself to an enormous serving of rashers, which he began to consume with great gusto. Ron sat beside him, opposite Hermione, and poured pumpkin juice into a goblet with shaking hands. He thought he sensed Hermione’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t bear to look up, couldn’t bear to see what was reflected in them - pity? Confusion? Distaste? He didn’t want to know. It wouldn’t be what he wanted to see.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her quiet voice almost drowned out entirely by Harry’s enthusiastic chewing.

“M’fine,” Ron muttered, taking a large swallow of pumpkin juice. “Just don’t feel well.”

She didn’t respond. Not that he expected her to.

The pumpkin juice sloshed uncomfortably into his empty, roiling stomach. He considered tempering it with some toast, but the effort of what it would take to do so - to actually reach out, select a piece, chew, swallow - had somehow become overwhelming, and he resigned himself to staring blankly into his goblet.

Still chewing, Harry tugged on the sleeve of Ron’s robes to get him to stand. As he looked up, he saw Hermione already walking down the long aisle between the tables, her bushy hair bouncing with every step, book still clasped in one hand. 

“Sorry,” said Ron as he clambered off of the bench and willed himself to move. One foot in front of the other, that was all he had to do. 

“You sure you’re all right?” asked Harry, brow furrowed with concern.

“Yeah, fine.”

Harry jerked his head in the general direction of Hermione, who clearly did not want to wait for them to catch up. “You two have a fight or something?”

Ron shook his head. “No.” 

It had been the opposite, actually. And yet here he was, unable to look at her for longer than half a second, unable to open his mouth and say anything that mattered.

He walked half a pace behind Harry the whole way to Transfiguration, legs heavy as lead, and slid into his usual seat at the back of the class. Hermione was in the front row, as expected, all of her attention on arranging her parchment and quills and inkwell on the desk before her at perfect right angles. He sometimes thought he was the only person who noticed these little idiosyncrasies of hers; he _knew_ he was the only one who found them endearing. 

As he watched, Hermione extracted a scroll of parchment from her bag and stood, walking it over to Professor McGonagall’s desk and adding it to what Ron now realized was a small stack of similar scrolls.

Of course. The essay. The essay he had worked on with the scent of her hair in his nose, with his every thought of how close she was, how intent on him she was, how easy it would be to lean in and kiss her. The essay he hadn’t finished.

“D’you have yours?” asked Harry. “I’ll bring yours up if you want.”

“Oh - er - yeah.” He dragged his rucksack into his lap and dug through it. The essay in question had been crushed, accordion-style, by a textbook, and try as Ron did to straighten it out with a few hastily-cast spells, his mind was too scattered to make any of it work. Eventually he just handed it to Harry, who was kind enough to exercise tact and keep his mouth shut as he accepted it. 

From the back of the room, through bleary eyes, Ron watched as his crumpled disaster of an essay joined the other tidy scrolls on the desk, and could not remember ever feeling lower in his life.

•••

“You prat, Ron, look at the state of her!”

_Fuck. Fuck. FUCK._

Blood gushed from the swollen gash in Demelza Robins’ lip, the bright crimson drops falling dozens of feet onto the frosty pitch below. Eyes still shooting daggers at him, Ginny swooped to her teammate’s aid, guiding her back to the ground.

He’d tried to apologize - he’d been aiming for the Quaffle, not for her face - but his voice had been lost in Ginny’s admonishments and so he flew morosely back to the three tall hoops he was expected to guard. Practice could not end soon enough.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure why he had even bothered to show up. There was no way his absence could have disappointed Harry more than his disastrous presence, which so far tallied half a dozen unsaved goals and one maimed Chaser. 

“I can fix that,” said Harry from below, hovering a few feet above the ground astride his Firebolt and casting a spell at Demelza’s face. “And Ginny, don’t call Ron a prat-“ Ron’s hopes shot up - was Harry defending him? “-you’re not the captain of this team-“

Oh. So he was just reserving it for himself, for later, to avoid bringing all his shortcomings to the attention of the entire team.

Things did not improve from there. Terrified of injuring more people, he tried to keep his erratic limbs to himself, which meant that the Quaffle whizzed through the hoops with alarming regularity. He saved exactly one goal, from Dean (who had been brought on earlier that week when it became clear that Katie Bell would not be back at Hogwarts anytime soon), and he had suspected it had been lobbed gently toward him out of sheer pity.

Pathetic. That was what he was, pathetic. Every time he came within reach of something good, something real, he crumpled under the weight of it and completely lost the plot. He wasn’t like Harry. He couldn’t rise to the occasion. Instead, he folded in on himself, panicked, made stupid mistakes. 

All day he had sensed Hermione slipping away from him, like sand through tightly-clenched fingers. The person he had been the night before, pulling her back for one last kiss, watching her walk up the stairs and feeling lighter than air, was such a far cry from the person he saw himself as now. He had barely been able to say a word to her at all, let alone what he really wanted to say. And he wanted to give her more - what she deserved - but he didn’t have what it took. 

Finally Harry dismissed them, and Ron followed the rest of his team back to the changing rooms. From a seat on a low bench, he watched as Harry gave them a little speech about how well they had played and how they were sure to defeat Slytherin. The Chasers and Beaters, buoyed by his words, left in high spirits, chattering excitedly among themselves, and Ron and Harry were left alone.

“I played like a sack of dragon dung,” said Ron as he peeled off his sweat-soaked Keeper gloves. 

“No, you didn’t,” replied Harry forcefully. “You’re the best Keeper I tried out, Ron. Your only problem is nerves.”

As if it was something he could turn on and off at will. As if he could just recognize it and that would overcome the issue. It made it worse, really. He knew he was nervous, he knew he had no confidence and a streak of anxiety a mile long, and that only made him doubt himself more; he could never be certain if he had anything to be nervous about, if he could trust the knee-jerk reaction in his own mind.

Harry launched into another speech - he was really leaning into this whole team captain thing - which detailed all of the things Ron had done right since his appointment as team Keeper. As they finished changing and started back toward the castle, Harry dug deep into the archives, mentioning last year’s Quidditch cup and the time over the summer when he’d blocked a goal with the point of his elbow.

So at least Harry believed in him. And however misguided Ron felt that this was, it helped to know that Harry was on his side, and that he saw something that maybe he couldn’t see in himself.

This was a new level for Ron, doubting his self-doubt.

“We’ll have one more practice on Friday,” Harry was saying as they climbed the steps to the second floor. “Just a quick one, to keep everyone sharp.”

“And what about those of us who aren’t sharp to begin with?” Ron couldn’t help but ask.

“Mate, you’ve got to stop,” replied Harry, whose patience for such self-deprecation was wearing thin. “I’ve told you, the problem’s all in your head.”

This was not particularly comforting - a problem existing in his head was a problem all the same - but Ron stuffed down the urge to argue as they approached the tapestry through which they usually took a shortcut to Gryffindor tower. Harry pushed it back - then jumped back as though he’d been struck.

Pressed against one wall, bodies so close they may well have been glued together, snogging as furiously as though it were their last night on earth, were Ginny and Dean. 

Something very odd rose in Ron at the sight: rage mixed with annoyance topped off with no small amount of discomfort.

“Oi!” he shouted, causing the couple to break apart. Dean, at the least, had the good sense to look sheepish, but Ginny just looked inconvenienced.

“What?!” she snapped, scowling at him. 

“Whaddya mean, what?” Ron fired back, the rage edging ahead in the battle for dominance over him. “You think I like finding my own sister snogging in public?”

He looked to Harry for support, only to see that his best mate looked as though he had been hit over the head.

“In public?” Ginny repeated incredulously. “This was an empty corridor until you lot came butting in.” Fresh anger rushed over her. “And what makes you think it’s your business what I do?”

“Because people’ll be going around saying you’re a - a-“ 

He broke off, grappling for the words, for the right way to explain. The right words to remind her that the gossip mill at Hogwarts was cruel and unrelenting, and that with the way stories were twisted and exaggerated as they traversed the castle, Merlin only knew what people would say. That he didn’t care if she snogged her boyfriend, jarring as it was to witness, but he cared what people said about his only sister.

“A what?” Ginny demanded to know, drawing her wand. Her entire body vibrated with unreleased fury. “A what, exactly?”

“He doesn’t mean anything, Ginny-“ Harry attempted to interject.

“Oh, yes he does!” Stray sparks shot out of the end of her wand, narrowly missing Dean’s trousers. “And you know what, Ron, you’re such a hypocrite, acting like you haven’t done the exact same thing with Hermione all over the castle - because for your information, people talk about her, too-“

His face went hot. “What’re you on about?”

“She was snogging Viktor Krum before she was ever snogging you,” Ginny spat, “but you only seem to care about what anyone says about _me-_ “

Ron stopped listening, then: this whole brain had gone fuzzy. Vaguely, as though his head was wrapped in cotton, he registered Ginny issuing a command to stay out of her business, and sensed her shoving past him to leave the corridor, Dean apologetic and cringing in her wake. But it was all background noise to the echo of Ginny’s words in his ears.

Viktor Krum. Viktor. Bloody. Krum. Of course. Of course she had snogged him. He hadn’t seen it before - had blinded himself to it, existed in a state of deep denial - but of course she had snogged him. And why wouldn’t she? He was successful and wealthy and decidedly not paralyzed by his own self-doubt - exactly the sort of bloke she deserved. That he, Ron, had ever expected her to be with him - how stupid could he be?

A hand fell on his shoulder. Harry. “C’mon,” he said, voice low. “Let’s just go.”

Ron’s legs carried him forward somehow, one foot in front of the other, guiding him up staircases and down corridors until they had made it to the seventh floor. It wasn’t until they were mere steps away from the Fat Lady’s portrait that Harry broke the silence.

“You didn’t know that about Hermione, did you?”

Ron shook his head. “No.”

•••

Hermione saw his legs step through the portrait hole first, feet still clad in his Quidditch boots, and her heart leapt through her chest. Just thinking about him - which was all she had done all day, she had been useless in class - made her nervous. Seeing him knotted her stomach and stopped up her throat, and speaking to him… was something she hadn’t quite accomplished yet.

She had tried, over breakfast, when he had shown up looking more distressed than he had been in ages, but he had given her some sort of monotone response and returned to staring at his pumpkin juice, which hadn’t exactly been a vote of confidence for trying again. And then he’d been quiet and sullen over lunch, using the back of his fork to smash his shepherd’s pie into a nauseating mess, so she had buried her nose into a book without even really bothering to read the words, and let him be.

Now, judging by the way Ginny had stormed into the common room just minutes ago, and the thunderous expressions on Ron’s and Harry’s faces, their Quidditch practice had not gone well.

Ron made a beeline across the room for the boys’ dormitory. If he noticed Hermione, if her presence in the common room had registered at all with him, he made no indication of it. His eyes were fixed straight ahead as his long legs carried him swiftly through the room and up the stairs - which, Hermione could not stop herself from noticing, he took two at a time just like he always did. 

Slightly less despondent, Harry dropped into an armchair near the fireplace and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He didn’t seem likely to acknowledge Hermione anytime soon either, and she decided, before she was swept up in the unending drama known as Hogwarts Quidditch, to send herself to bed early.

As she trudged up the stairs, a new wave of guilt washed slowly, steadily over her. She hadn’t even bothered to find out what had them so upset, and what if it was something with Dumbledore’s lessons, or Snape, or even Malfoy? And she had just disregarded them, completely wrapped up in her own adolescent drama - but no, argued a sensible voice in the back of her head. Had it been anything serious - Voldemort-related - they’d have told her. It had to be Quidditch.

Quidditch, or Ron regretting what had happened the night before.

Lavender and Parvati were in the dormitory, sitting on their respective beds and collaborating on Divination homework, when Hermione entered the room. Greeting them would have taken more energy than Hermione had to spare, so she gave a brief wave of the hand in their direction and escaped to the privacy of her own four-poster.

“No,” Lavender was saying, “loss of a loved one is when Pluto is in the eighth house, not ninth-“

“But it’s in the ninth right now-“

“No, not for a bit - see, you’re using a lunar calendar…”

Unable to bear it, Hermione yanked the hangings shut and arranged herself facedown on the bed, still in her robes. 

She had hardly slept all night. Rather, she’d indulged herself, reliving the kiss - both kisses - until the moment was permanently seared into her memory. From the way his mouth had tasted to the crooked curve of his smile to the mischief lighting his eyes as he’d tugged her back for one last kiss, she had not wanted to forget a single thing. Only briefly had she drifted in the chasm between sleep and wakefulness, and when the sun finally rose, she had leapt out of bed, more than eager to start the day. The sooner she woke, the sooner she would see Ron. She had been downright giddy at the thought, letting herself envision what a real relationship might be like: goodnight kisses, stolen snogs in empty classrooms, holding hands under the table in the Great Hall. All the things they wanted everyone to think they were doing, they could actually do.

But then he had shown up at breakfast, unable to look her in the eye, and nothing had worked out how she had hoped.

The tears leaked out of her eyes before she could stop them.

•••

“Put that book away,” Hermione snapped over a bubbling cauldron the following morning. “I don’t want to hear anything that - that _prince_ has to say.”

Harry’s jaw bobbed for a moment, as though he intended on arguing, before he gave a little jerk of his head and stuffed his doctored copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ back into his rucksack.

Slughorn had paired them up to prepare a Rehydration Draught, sending Ron clear across the classroom to work with Anthony Goldstein. Hermione kept glancing over at him, watching as he weighed dried beetles on a scale - and hating herself for it. Why should she bother? Why should she give him even the slightest thought, when it was so clear he wasn’t giving any to her?

“Here.” Hermione shoved her scale in front of Harry, who was counting out his own dried beetles with barely-masked distaste. “We need two ounces of those - and be careful,” she snapped as the twig-like leg of a beetle broke off in Harry’s fingers. “It says they’re supposed to go into the cauldron whole.”

“Sorry.”

Picking up his wand, Harry began levitating the little dried bugs onto the scale, where they landed as delicately as a leaf onto grass. Hermione peered into their cauldron, where their potion bubbled happily along, the exact shade of kelly green that the textbook prescribed. And yet Hermione could not help thinking back to just two days prior, to a burnt Soothing Solution and Ron’s blood stark against the pale and freckled canvas of his skin and his eyes, so warm and so fond, fixed upon her as she worked. What had happened? In the course of just a couple of days, everything had changed.

“You can just add them all at once,” Hermione said as Harry dropped beetle after beetle into the cauldron. “Doesn’t have to be one at a time.”

“I just… thought it might help,” replied Harry shiftily.

“You saw that in your book, didn’t you?”

Harry dropped in another beetle, where it hissed against the surface of the liquid. “Maybe.”

With a huff, Hermione sat heavily on her stool, arms folded tightly across her chest. “Harry, I really don’t think-“ She caught sight of Ron, dropping a handful of beetles into his own potion, out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, fine. Do what you want.”

Squinting curiously at her, Harry sat as well. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you and Ron haven’t spoken for, like, two days?”

“That has nothing to do with anything,” she replied as she directed her eyes very pointedly at the (un-annotated) textbook in front of her. 

“Mmm.” Harry’s brows rose almost imperceptibly as he dropped the last beetle into the potion. “Just, neither of you seems very happy lately-“

“And?” 

Hermione’s patience for this conversation had run out as soon as it had started. Harry meant well, and was likely trying to avoid being caught in the middle of another cold war the way he had been in third year, but it wasn’t as if he could help. Any information he thought he had was no more than a carefully crafted act of deception. 

“And maybe you should just talk to him,” said Harry. “Instead of both of you being too stubborn to do it, just - y’know, be the slightly less stubborn one.”

Hermione allowed herself to consider this. Maybe Harry was right. Maybe all they needed was for the tension to break, and they could return to normal. 

Not that she was sure what normal was for them anymore.

“Can we just make the potion?” 

Harry’s vivid green eyes narrowed at her, curiously, like he knew there was more she wasn’t saying. 

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, all right.”

They worked mostly in silence for the rest of the class; Hermione did her best not to issue too many orders as they prepared ingredients for the potion. Something shifted, subtly, in the energy between them, as a too-familiar sensation of guilt slowly built in her. There was no way Harry suspected what was actually going on - the charade they had led the past several months was too ridiculous for him to guess - but they had been misleading him all the same and now, when he was trying to help, he was so woefully misinformed as to be rendered futile.

But maybe she, Hermione, could repair things herself. And Harry wasn’t necessarily wrong: she and Ron were both so stubborn that eventually someone would have to cave and take the first step. 

She chanced a look over at him again, at precisely the same moment that he looked up from his own textbook, and their eyes met. She tried to offer him a smile, however feeble it might have felt, but he turned, then, and directed his attention far too intently on the bubbling cauldron before him. 

Yes. She would definitely have to speak first. 

Slughorn made sure to praise Hermione and Harry for the near-flawlessness of their Rehydration Draught - and Hermione felt she exercised a great deal of self-restraint in not pointing out that they hadn’t needed Harry’s beloved textbook to accomplish that - and they bottled a bit of it up for their professor to officially grade. The second they were done, Harry darted from the classroom, mumbling some excuse about needing to return a library book, and Hermione was left alone.

Across the room, Ron moved slowly, like his lanky limbs were weighed down, as he packed up his things. Other students were milling about, washing their cauldrons or disposing of old ingredients - the rubbish bins were filled with partly-crushed dried beetles - and so Hermione, protected by this cover of normal classroom activity, approached Ron and Anthony’s table, setting her own bag down on a nearby stool. Her heart had already begun to pound behind her ribs.

If he noticed her, mere feet away from him, he didn’t look up; instead, he very carefully, thoroughly, swept some lingering detritus from the tabletop into the palm of his hand. 

Hermione cleared her throat. “Hi.” Nothing. Not the slightest indication that he had registered her presence at all. “Ron,” she attempted again, louder now.

He lifted his head. “What?”

Immediately, any grand designs she’d had on talking things through, on resolving whatever it was between them, on honesty, all vanished at the look in his eyes. He had never looked at her the way he was now, as if he didn’t know her at all. Even before their friendship, there had always been something sparking there - annoyance or disbelief or frustration - and lately they had been flooded with warmth and understanding and something she hadn’t let herself acknowledge, lest she be wrong.

But now, he regarded her as though she were a stranger. Nothing more, and nothing less.

“Nothing,” she snapped, voice strangled. “Nothing at all, forget it! Forget about all of it!”

She snatched up her bag but a strap had caught on the edge of the stool and it toppled, falling to the floor with a loud, metallic crash. Every eye in the room turned to look at her as she fled, humiliated, from the room.

There was a little part of her - tiny, minuscule - that thought Ron might follow after her. That he might run up behind her in the dank, clammy dungeon corridor and ask her to listen, to wait for him, to let him explain. That he might apologize. That he might tell her how he felt, even if wasn’t what she wanted to hear. 

But most of her knew that he wouldn’t.

•••

Hermione had heard the whispers during Herbology, though she had tried to drown them out by engaging Neville Longbottom in a conversation about the many uses of Flutterby leaves. And she had felt the eyes on her all during Arithmancy, even as she devoted herself to a very complex prediction chart. She had every intention of skipping dinner and spending the remainder of the night in the library, surrounded by as many books as it would take to keep Ron out of her thoughts. She did not think she could bear to be excluded when Harry inevitably sided with Ron; she preferred solitude on her own terms.

She was among the last to leave Professor Vector’s classroom, as the night stretching out ahead of her was not the sort that inspired any eagerness. The throngs of students in the corridor were thinning as they went in different ways - the Great Hall, various common rooms, last-minute Quidditch practice - and as Hermione turned a corner, she saw one lone figure leaning against the railing to a staircase. Her hopes were not up: this figure was too broad through the shoulders, too arrogant in his stance, to be who she wanted him to be.

“Granger.” Cormac’s eyes glinted nefariously at her. “Just the girl I was hoping to see.”

As she strode past him, attempting to ignore his presence, he fell easily into step beside her. 

“What do you want?” she asked, though she thought, with a sense of growing dread, that she already knew.

“I heard you came to your senses,” he said, “and split up with Weasley.”

She stared straight ahead as she walked, clutching a small stack of books tight against her chest. Under no circumstances would she give him the satisfaction of a reaction to his remark.

“So I thought,” he continued, “now you’re single again, that you’d want to go to Slughorn’s Christmas party together.”

Her patience snapped. All day she had been trying to hold it together, to keep her composure after the incident in Potions class, but there was only so much one person could take. 

“No,” she spat, “there’s no way I’m going to that with you.”

Cormac was back beside her in a flash. “Why not?” The false friendliness had gone from his tone, replaced by irritation. “You’re not still going with Weasley, are you?”

The sheer audacity of his comment, of his sense of entitlement to her, and the sting of the loss of Ron - no longer could she take the high road and ignore him, or dismiss him as a nuisance. Something had to give.

“Listen.” Her voice, low and fierce, shook with anger. “Just because I’m not going with Ron doesn’t mean I’m going with you, not now, not _ever_ , and if you ask me this again, I’m going to McGonagall and telling her you’re harassing me.”

“Oh, come off it, just ‘cause you can’t take a compliment-“

She very nearly hit him. Would have done, if not for being a prefect. “Leave. Me. _Alone._ ”

And she swept away down the corridor, satisfaction growing beneath the indignance and outrage.

She didn’t need Ron to protect her. She could do it herself.


	11. The One With Even More Quidditch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for trusting me after the angst-fest that was the last chapter… it really means so much. Once again, this chapter contains quotes borrowed directly from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, and once again, I’m not taking credit for those bits. Enjoy!!

Ron had not pulled the hangings around his bed closed: he saw no need. The rest of the student body was currently in the Great Hall, consuming the lunch that he himself was too nauseated to eat. He couldn’t stand to be so closed in, anyway. The last few mornings, he had woken up surrounded by the crimson fabric and felt that it might have been suffocating him. He needed space. Space to think, and remind himself that things could maybe get worse - if, say, You-Know-Who decided to make a special appearance at tomorrow’s Quidditch match - even if he, Ron, had reached his own personal rock bottom. Space to let himself ruminate, wallow in self-loathing, and decide if there was any way to get himself even remotely back on track.

Because there was no getting around it - he was going to lose the Quidditch match tomorrow. There was one last practice, scheduled for the gap between their last class and dinner, during which time Ron fully expected to cement his position as Gryffindor’s all-time worst athlete. But it all paled in comparison to how spectacularly he had managed to ruin things with Hermione. The fact that he had gone from kissing her in the middle of the night to snapping at her in Potions class in a matter of a few days was beyond the realm of his comprehension. Even more unfathomable was that it could ever be repaired. 

Rather than face her - or more accurately, avoid eye contact while in her vicinity - he would rather do as he was doing now. Lying prone on his bed, eyes tracing the seams in the stone ceiling above him, he was free to allow himself to be miserable.

The door creaked open, much to Ron’s dismay.  _ Don’t be Harry, _ he silently begged, resenting himself for the sentiment.  _ Please don’t be Harry. _ Strange, really, that he would not want to see the one person who still seemed to tolerate him, but he did not think he could handle any more of Harry’s relentless encouragement. He didn’t deserve it.

Still, Ron pushed himself up to his elbows to see Ginny entering the dorm. Her long hair was scraped back into a messy ponytail.

“Dean’s not here,” Ron said flatly, dropping onto his back again.

“I know,” she replied. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh.”

He didn’t realize she was still in the room until the end of his bed dipped, and he saw her perched there. 

“So…” She pursed her lips. “I heard you and Hermione broke up.”

Ron rubbed a weary hand over his face and forced himself up to a sitting position. “Yep.”

It was, indeed, the latest viral rumor to ravage the castle. He wondered if Cormac was still leaving her alone.

“I just wanted to see if you were all right,” said Ginny, concern etched onto her face. She had the same sort of expression that his mum always had whenever one of them would come over ill. “Just, I know how much you - how into her you were.” 

“Oh, do you?” He couldn’t keep the note of skepticism out of his voice. 

“Yeah,” she said. “I mean, anyone with half a brain could see the way you look at her.”

He could only muster a shrug in response. 

“And…” Ginny made a face akin to swallowing something unpleasant. “And I hope it’s not because of, erm, the thing I told you the other day. I know I shouldn’t’ve thrown that in your face like that, I just, I was really mad-“

“I know.” His anger at Ginny, that day a thousand years ago behind the tapestry, had burned bright and fast, and then immediately fizzled, snuffed out by the revelation about Hermione. “Reckon I shouldn’t have gone spare at you either, but I - look, I know how people talk. I know how other blokes talk, and I don’t want them talking like that about you.”

She nodded, thoughtful. She was still reminding him forcibly of their mum. 

“I just feel bad, I hope I didn’t cause a fight with that.”

“No,” said Ron. “It wasn’t because of that. Not really, anyway.”

“‘Cause it’s not a big deal,” Ginny hurried to add, “you know, if she snogged him, it doesn’t mean she likes you any less-“

“It’s not-“ An elbow on his knee, Ron buried the fingers of his left hand into his hair. He couldn’t believe he was discussing this with his little sister, of all people. “It wasn’t about the snogging bit, really. I’m just not good enough for her, I don’t know why I ever thought we could-“

“Rubbish,” interrupted Ginny. 

Ron rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to be nice to me.”

“I’m not being nice, I’m being honest.”

“No, you’re not, because if you were, you wouldn’t have been as shocked as you were when we-“ A lump, unbidden, formed swiftly in his throat.  _ It wasn’t real _ , he reminded himself.  _ None of it was real _ . He hadn’t lost anything, because he never had her to begin with _.  _ “When we first got together.”

“I was only surprised because you’d actually gone for it,” said Ginny. “Not because it didn’t make sense. This is what you always do, Ron. You’re so convinced you’re the problem in everything that you - you turn yourself into the problem.”

“Thank you,” he replied drily. “That’s helpful.”

“Yeah, well, it should be.”

“If you want, I can talk to her,” said Ginny hesitantly, “explain what happened-”

“No,” said Ron with a fervent shake of his head. “That’s not gonna help, she’ll just think I’m an idiot. More than she already does, anyway.”

“All right, well, the offer stands if you change your mind.”

Ron let himself imagine it - Ginny detailing the whole debacle behind the tapestry to Hermione - and thought he would rather become housemates with Aragog than have her know that he was letting his old jealousy of stupid Viktor Krum get the better of him  _ again. _ He was meant to have moved on from it, grown, matured, but sometimes he still felt he was fourteen years old in dress robes from the eighteenth century.

“So what’re you doing here, anyway?” asked Ron. “‘Cause I don’t think there’s any fixing this-“

“You’re not one for missing meals,” Ginny said with the shadow of a smirk on her lips. “I was worried.”

“You sound like Mum,” he retorted, just for the satisfaction of watching the affront cross over her face. “Anyway, you shouldn’t even be in here - matter of fact, you shouldn’t even  _ know  _ that you can get in here-“

“Oh, fine.” Despite the annoyance in her tone, she still looked halfway to laughter. “Excuse me for trying to be a good sister.” 

“Get  _ out. _ ”

Ginny rose and started walking toward the door. “See ya at practice!”

She slapped a palm against the doorjamb on her way out.

•••

“I’m resigning.”

“No,” sighed Harry, falling back onto his bed, “you are not.”

“You can’t actually stop me,” said Ron. Propping his heels on the frame of his four-poster bed, he rested his forearms on his knees. “And you actually don’t need me tomorrow. I bet if you walk into the seventh years’ room right now and tell McLaggen that you need a Keeper-“

“McLaggen?” Harry lifted his head from his pillow, disgusted. “That’s a joke, right?”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to take my place.”

Practice had been, in a word, abysmal; Ron’s worst one yet. Distracted by his earlier conversation with Ginny - distracted by all of it, by the vision he had once had of how this match would go and his certainty, now, that nothing would ever go the way he imagined - he had hardly had the heart to care when the Quaffle was not within arms’ reach, much to the chagrin of everyone else.

“Yeah, well, I’m not letting him on the team, so it doesn’t matter.” The bedsprings squeaked as Harry pushed himself up to a sitting position. “We’d all much rather have you on the team than him.”

Ron recalled with painful ease the way the rest of the team had banded together in the common room, whispering furtively and shooting not-so-subtle glares his way. 

He could not push away the overwhelming sense that he was losing everything. He was going to ruin Harry’s Quidditch team. He could hardly function in class. He had already lost Hermione. Everything was spiraling rapidly around him, swirling in a vortex that had him caught in the middle, paralyzed and unable to see any way out.

“Why?” 

“Why what?”

“Why do you even want me on the team?” asked Ron, unsurprised by the lump that grew in his throat as he spoke. Lately, it there was there all the time.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m a mess,” said Ron thickly. “I can’t save a goal for shit, everyone hates me-“

“They don’t hate you-“

Ron shot Harry a withering look. “You don’t have to say that. I just, I don’t know why you-“ He cleared his throat. “Why you bother.”

“Mate, if you actually have to ask me that-“ Harry shook his head. “Just go to sleep, alright? We’ve got an important day tomorrow.”

•••

“We’ll be starting in about five minutes, you’d better get your boots on.”

Ron gaped, openmouthed, as Harry gave a mysterious little shrug and made for the other side of the locker room to fetch his own boots. 

Some potions, mostly poisons, kicked in instantly. But this one came on slowly, gradually, ebbing through his veins like quicksilver until the stadium around him had gone brighter somehow, and the sensation that had plagued him for the past several days, like a dementor was following him everywhere he went, had given way to a sense of brilliant, beautiful optimism. Fear and excitement alike had taken hold in him at the now-infinite possibility that stretched out before him. Because it was too good to be true, too unfathomable to really consider… but then again, Malfoy, of all people, had called off ill. As had Vaisey, Slytherin’s best scorer. And conditions really were perfect, the sky the sort of clear and endless blue that came around after a heavy storm.

There was nothing to worry about anymore. He was going to be the best damn Keeper that Gryffindor had ever seen. He was going to save every goal and dodge every Bludger. They would win, now, definitely, and he didn’t even care that Harry had broken a rule; it wasn’t as if he would get caught. Not with liquid luck on their side. 

When they stepped onto the pitch, it was to roaring cheers and applause peppered with low, vindictive boos from the green and silver end of the stands. Instinctively Ron scanned the spectators bedecked in scarlet and gold for familiar, supportive faces, but amongst all of the yelling and clapping, and from fifty feet in the air, he could not discern a single face in the melee.

Just as well; he was perfectly confident all on his own. 

The blast of Madam Hooch’s whistle to signal the start of the match was just barely audible over the din. Ron fixed his eyes determinedly on the Quaffle, which was zooming between Slytherin’s Chasers with such speed that it was a mere blur. But that was of no concern; whatever they threw at Ron, he was going to save it. So when Urquhart flew toward him, menacing on his Nimbus, a look in his eyes like a wolf preying on a rabbit, it didn’t intimidate him the way it might have done even a day ago; he simply batted the Quaffle away from the hoop as though it were nothing more than a fly.

The stands erupted, and Ron could not help but break into his first real smile in days.

•••

Ron yanked the outer layer of his robes over his head and dropped down onto the bench opposite Harry. The locker room was emptying out, with only Dean and Ginny, who chattered excitedly about the team’s victory, remaining.

“And did you see that last one, from Montague?” Ron gushed excitedly to Harry as he rubbed a towel over his sweat-soaked hair. “They’re such wankers, I threw it right to Ginny and she scored on them while they were all too busy telling him off-“

“Yeah,” Harry laughed, his green eyes gleaming behind his glasses even as he watched Ginny leave. “I saw them all, Ron, don’t worry.”

“Sorry,” said Ron, though he didn’t really mean it. His cheeks were starting to hurt from grinning. “It’s just nice, y’know? Having a good match for once?”

And the quicksilver feeling was still flooding powerfully through his veins. Paired with the adrenaline from the match, and the chorus of the Gryffindor rendition of ‘Weasley Is Our King’ still ringing in his ears, he saw the world now as his for the taking. 

The Felix would last for the entire day. Perhaps, if he went up to the common room and saw Hermione - and she would be there, because for all that she claimed not to care about Quidditch, she never missed a match or a celebration if she could help it - then he could repair the rift between them. He could find the power within himself to tell her how he felt. To explain why he had been in a slow, steady meltdown since Tuesday morning. And if he was lucky enough, she might give him another chance. He might even get to kiss her again.

“Yeah,” said Harry, breaking Ron out of his musings, “but they could all be like that.”

Ron furrowed his brow at him. “Whaddya mean?”

The door to the locker room swung open then, and there stood Hermione, winding her Gryffindor scarf around her hands, nerves and determination clear on her face. 

Ron’s heart leapt into his throat at the sight of her. Was she here to talk things through? Did she miss him as much as he missed her? The latter was impossible, maybe - he often didn’t think it was possible to long for someone the way he longed for her - but even if all she wanted was their friendship back, that might be enough for him. To at least not have lost her entirely. 

“I want a word with you, Harry,” she said, her voice trembling. “You shouldn’t have done it. You heard Slughorn, it’s illegal.”

And just as quickly as his hopes had soared into the sky, they came crashing down, shattering all around him into a thousand tiny pieces. She was not here for him. She was not here to congratulate him on a match well-won, or take the first step in making amends. She was just here to tell them off.

The loss of her had never felt so distinct, so sharp. He hadn’t known it until now, but there had been one tiny shred of hope left within him, clinging desperately to the way she had looked at him that night in the common room - like she had happily given over her whole world for him to hold. That hope, now, was dashed on the rocks, demolished, disintegrated at the disappointment and anger and betrayal reflected in her eyes.

The adrenaline had gone. The sensation of the Felix had vanished without a trace, almost as though… realization washed over him like ice water. 

As though he had never taken it at all.

It was as if he was hearing Harry’s explanation to Hermione - that he had only pretended to dose him with Felix, simply wanting Ron to feel lucky - from underwater; their voices were distorted and distant and almost irrelevant as brutal understanding struck him right between the ribs. 

Part of him wanted to holler right back at them, at Harry for his deception and Hermione for her utter lack of faith, but a greater part of him knew it didn’t matter what he did. It would not change the harsh truth that he was Ron Weasley, and even his triumphs were somehow failures. 

He stood, towel still around his neck, and made for the door, leaving the two of them behind to carry on fighting without him. The sun had ducked behind the clouds at some point after the game concluded, and the November air had turned cool against his flushed skin. Packs of students - most of them elated, the odd few disappointed by the day’s outcome - still ebbed out of the stands, and Ron slipped into the crowd unnoticed as he made his way back up to the castle. 

By the time he reached Gryffindor tower - having had little motivation to do much of anything, he had let his feet drag and let his stride shorten - the common room had already devolved into chaos. He was pulled excitedly through the portrait hole by Seamus Finnegan, who had clapped him on the shoulder and pressed a chilled bottle of butterbeer into his hand. 

“And we’ve got Firewhisky up in the dorm if you want it,” he had added conspiratorially before darting off.

Ron took a drink from his bottle; the cold liquid slid down his throat without him really tasting it. Everywhere he looked, he saw bright, beaming faces. People were calling his name, praising him, patting him on the back. A timid, tiny first-year girl kept halfway approaching him before scampering off, giggling and red-faced, to rejoin her friends.

Perhaps he was not cut out for glory. Perhaps such things were reserved for the Harrys of the world - people who had really done something worth celebrating. Ron’s success had cost him too much for him to feel any joy over it.

He snagged a miniature treacle tart from a nearby tray and popped the whole thing into his mouth; it practically glued his jaw shut as he found an empty seat on the sofa and parked himself in it. There was too much commotion around to see if Harry or Hermione had returned, but Ron wasn’t sure he wanted to see either of them. Harry, at the very least, had been trying to help him, but Hermione - his stomach tightened at the thought of her. How had they ended up here? What had happened to their easy friendship, to silent conversations and mending injuries in Potions and sharing ice cream in the common room? It felt like an entire lifetime had transpired in the past few days.

Taking another swig of butterbeer to wash down the treacle tart, Ron allowed himself a glance around the room, and saw the form of one Lavender Brown approaching the sofa where he sat. In one hand, she carried a tall, slim glass of fizzy drink; in the other, a platter of assorted desserts.

“You looked hungry,” she said with a massive smile stretching over her face, setting the plate down on the table in front of Ron. “Thought you could use something sweet.”

“Oh.” Curious, Ron watched as she dropped onto the sofa beside him. “Erm. Thanks.”

He wasn’t hungry, but he took a biscuit and bit into it. As he chewed, Lavender angled her knees toward him, leaning forward, intent upon him. 

“You were brilliant today,” she continued. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“Oh - well-“ The usual, and strange, combination of pride and discomfort that always struck him whenever anyone paid him a compliment was coming over him now. “It wasn’t just me.”

“But you were the most important part.” Lavender’s big blue eyes shone as she inched closer to him on the sofa. “I mean, without you-“

“Well - Harry’s Seeker-“

“Your job’s harder,” she said. “I really mean it, you were amazing out there.”

He used to dream of praise like this. As a child he had looked into a mirror and seen himself as the victor of all, as the best and the brightest. Now, a few months away from seventeen, he was hearing everything he wanted to hear: that he was important, he was valued, he was talented. But he didn’t swell with confidence and pride the way he once thought he might have done. The words blew past him, hollow and meaningless, as fleeting as the joy of victory itself.

“Thanks,” he finally conceded. “It was a good match, I reckon.”

“It was amazing,” she repeated, still staring up at him. “ _ You  _ were amazing.”

Lavender was perfectly nice. He had always liked her well enough, and she had been in the DA, which he always considered a point in anyone’s favor. But he remembered the way he had felt fit to burst when Hermione had appeared in the stands during his Quidditch, and her voice assuring him,  _ “you’re doing brilliantly _ ”. And then he tried to do the same with Lavender, to see if the thought of her support made his stomach leap the same way… and it didn’t. It just didn’t.

Of course it didn’t. He had never needed praise from people he hardly knew. That meant nothing to him; what did  _ they  _ know, anyway? Lavender was a good person, but she didn’t know the first thing about him, really. What he had craved, always, was the approval of those he loved.

He still couldn’t see Hermione anywhere.

“I heard that you’re single again,” said Lavender, and by now, she had edged so close to him that her thigh rested against his. 

It made him nervous, her touch, and not in the excited, heady way that Hermione’s had. Mostly, he just wanted to escape.

“You heard right,” he replied, fixing his eyes on a point just above her hairline. He found her difficult to look at; she was so earnest, and he could return none of the sentiment. “Single once again.”

“I don’t mean this as anything against Hermione,” she said in a very placating sort of tone. “She’s nice, and she’s really smart and everything. I just think next time, you should be with someone who’ll really appreciate you.”

Her hand slipped onto his leg. Her fingers were longer, skinnier than Hermione’s, nails painted a pale, glittery pink. 

“You really are amazing,” Lavender added. Her voice has gone all low and breathy, like she had just run up a flight of stairs. “And not just at Quidditch.”

She was leaning toward him now, so close that he could smell her perfume, sharp and sickly sweet, an assault on his senses. None of this made sense, none of it was right. He wasn’t supposed to be here, with a girl he hardly knew, surrounded by people who only cared about him when he got things right. 

Lavender’s face was so close now that he could make out each and every one of her mascara-darkened eyelashes. As her eyes fluttered closed, her shiny pink lips parted, just the slightest bit - and no, no, this wasn’t what he wanted, wasn’t  _ who  _ he wanted. Something clunked together in his anxious mind, a throwback to the first weekend of October and to Hermione, her face streaked with tears. 

_ “Go and date Lavender Brown if that’s what you want.” _

Maybe there was a version of him, in some other life, that would have gone for it. A version that had never kissed Hermione, who had not experienced the depths of that connection, who would have settled for something else. But if he kissed Lavender now, he would only be wishing for her to be someone else. And they both deserved better than that.

Ron sat up straight, pressing his back into the arm of the sofa to gain some distance between himself and Lavender. “Erm-“ He cleared his throat and tried not to notice the disappointment registering on her face. “I’ve - erm - I’ve just got to - er - I’ll be back.”

He scrambled up off the sofa and backed away toward the stairs, not bothering to watch as the party raged on without him.


	12. The One With The Christmas Party

_ Dear Mum and Dad, _

_ I’m sorry that I haven’t written very much recently. Classes are going well. We have a round of exams coming up before the holiday, but as we don’t have any Ministry exams in the spring, I will definitely be able to come home for Christmas this year. The train arrives at King’s Cross station on the 22nd, if you could please pick me up. _

_ Also, I’m expected to attend a holiday party that one of the professors here is hosting for a select group of students. It’s important that I continue to make a good impression, as he has a lot of important connections that may help me in the future. I didn't bring my dress robes, so please send them back with the owl that brought this letter. _

_ Lastly, I should tell you that Ron and I are no longer a couple. I don’t want to talk very much about it which is why I’m telling you here, in a letter, so that when I’m home over Christmas you’ll already know. I’m fine, and everything is fine, but I thought I should tell you. _

_ I hope all is well at home. _

_ Love, _

_ Hermione _

She read the letter over and over until she had it memorized. She hated every last word on the page; she sounded stilted, formal, withdrawn. Phrases jumped out at her like punches to the gut:  _ home for Christmas; no longer a couple; I’m fine; everything’s fine. _

She did not like to picture her parents opening her correspondence, reading her half-truths and her lies of omission and her painstakingly calculated words. Every interaction she had with them, be it in person or via parchment and quill, was designed to convince them that everything was okay, that her life was as unremarkable as it could possibly be. 

_ Everything’s fine.  _ She would have laughed, were she not tucked away in her favorite corner of the library. Nothing was fine. Nothing had been fine for a long time, and things were only growing worse. 

The library had quickly become her second home since the Quidditch match, even more so than usual. Harry had cooled down over the Felix incident, but like most of their disputes, he instinctively sided with Ron, and she could not say that she blamed him. She had done the thing she always did: assume the worst of him. The problem was that she really did have faith in him. She did believe that he was capable of brilliance, but after all of the hurt and the confusion of the week leading up to the match, she hadn’t wanted to. She was never able to show him, never able to make the words come out right. She always knew the right thing to say in class, and during exams, and to her parents to keep them content, but never when it really mattered. 

Maybe this was just her life now. She had caught a glimpse of what life was like on the other side, with friends and even a boyfriend - regardless of how falsified the relationship had been - but looking back now, she thought maybe none of it was meant for her anymore. That maybe she had been fooling herself the whole time, thinking that any of this was remotely in her reach. She knew now what she had always known, but had allowed herself to forget these past few months: that it was never going to happen with Ron. Not the way she wanted. Because if it was, they wouldn’t have crashed and burned in such spectacular fashion before they ever really took off.

She read through the letter again, picturing the scene at her parents’ home in London as it arrived. The owl would startle them, as it always did, and her mum would warily hang back as her dad retrieved the correspondence from the owl’s beak. And then they would read the words, written by her, their daughter, whom they had sent to a school they could never visit, into a world they could never understand, on faith and trust alone. She could not bear to give them anything but good news. Picking up her wand, she waved it over the parchment, whispering a spell under her breath, until the final paragraph of her letter had disappeared completely. She replaced her words about Ron with a note about the high mark she had received on an exam in Charms and a line about hoping to be made Head Girl next year, and decided that it would do.

With a sigh, she rolled her parchment up into a tidy scroll and sealed it off with a tap of her wand, then slowly gathered her books. Her plan for the remainder of her evening was as isolating as ever. She would take the long way to the Owlery to mail her letter, then the long way to Gryffindor tower, and proceed to her dorm, where she imagined she could expect to fall asleep to the sound of Parvati and Lavender in conversation. The next day would be the same, and the next, and the next: there was no end in sight.

But, she thought morosely as she pushed through the heavy doors and stepped into the corridor, at least the Christmas hols were fast approaching.

•••

The dress robes, packed in brown paper, arrived via struggling owl along with a letter absolutely brimming with words of excitement about Hermione’s impending arrival home and well-wishes on her exams, and guilt bubbled up inside Hermione like a poorly-brewed potion. There was no way she could tell them the truth. About anything, really. About Hogwarts, and Harry, and how everything with Ron had really started (and ended). She would have to go home and pretend like everything was fine. Like she was over it. Like her heart was not slowly crumbling into a thousand little pieces. 

And as the parcel landed on the empty space beside her, at the very end of the Gryffindor table, she felt nothing but disappointment. She had not known it until then, but a small part of her had hoped that they might not arrive in time, that her owl would drop them mid-flight from London, and she could avoid the Slug Club Christmas do altogether. But alas, her parents were prompt and punctual and so supportive that it made her insides constrict, and she found herself faced with the fact that the party was no longer a mere possibility, it was now an inevitability. 

She tried to forget that they were sitting there on the table before her, and simply focus on eating breakfast, but her appetite - as had been the case rather frequently since the Quidditch match - had vanished. She stirred her porridge idly, trying to block out the sounds of conversation and laughter from further down the table, and unsuccessfully forcing back the memory of how she had once envisioned this night, with Ron in the striking blue dress robes his brothers had gifted him, and dim lighting and butterbeer and dancing. She had been foolish to ever let herself imagine it, and worse, to let herself believe that this girlish fantasy could ever come true. 

“Granger.” Hermione’s stomach sank as she looked up from her porridge and into the dark eyes of one Cormac McLaggen, who stood on the other side of the table. “What time am I picking you up tonight?”

“You’re not,” she replied coldly, pulling her parcel into her lap and reaching down to the floor for her bag. So she’d be early to class again; she wasn’t hungry anyway. 

“Aww, come on, don’t be like that.” He leaned forward and placed his palms on the table. The breadth of his massive shoulders blocked everything else from sight. “Don’t tell me you’re actually going stag to this thing.”

“Why do you care, anyway?” she asked with no attempt to hide the derision in her voice. 

For the life of her, she could not comprehend his incessant interest in her. She had never shown the slightest inclination toward reciprocating; rather, she was downright surly during most of their interactions, which were thankfully few and far between. 

“It’s just a shame, is all,” said Cormac with that odd smile back on his face. “A pretty girl like you ought to have a date, y’know?”

“No-”

“So c’mon, whaddya say?”

“I said no-”

“I just think you’re gonna regret that-”

“Oi!” came a loud voice from behind Cormac, and as he straightened up, Hermione saw Ron standing beside him, barely-masked anger on his face. “Leave her alone.”

Cormac let out a sharp, humorless bark of a laugh and turned to face Ron, who was just barely taller than him. “This doesn’t concern you, Weasley.”

“Yeah, it does, and you’d better back off-”

“Don’t think so, actually.” In stark contrast to the trembling rage that consumed Ron’s entire body, Cormac appeared to be enjoying this. “‘Cause from what I heard, she dumped your arse -  _ again _ -”

Ron’s wand was in his hand and under Cormac’s chin in a flash. “Leave. Her. Alone. Or you’re gonna be the one regretting things.”

The two regarded each other for one long, tense moment that seemed to stretch out for minutes, hours even, as Hermione watched with bated breath. Finally, Cormac shrugged and took a step back.

“You’re not worth the detention,” he decided, then stalked off toward the door.

The eyes of dozens of students were on Ron as he leaned forward on the table, setting his hands upon it not unlike the way Cormac had done. But from Ron, it wasn’t menacing or meant as a threat; there was nothing but concern coming from him, and a long-dormant sense of safety arose in Hermione.

“Are you all right?” asked Ron, his voice carefully even.

“Yes - fine,” Hermione managed. “Thanks.”

“S’no problem,” he replied with a shrug. “Told you I’d kick his arse if you needed me to.”

And with that, he turned and strode away as well, jogging a few paces until he fell into step with Harry. 

•••

Hermione stood on tiptoe, trying vainly to see around the crowded room. She’d lost track of Harry and Luna again - no doubt because Harry had been dragged into some inane conversation by Professor Slughorn - and she had hardly caught a glimpse of Ginny and Dean before they slunk away, hand-in-hand, looking like they were trying very hard to be inconspicuous.  _ Good for them,  _ thought Hermione with a touch of bitterness as she craned her neck to see past a group of fourth-years. If she couldn’t be off snogging the person she really wanted to be snogging, at least someone should. 

Finally she spotted Harry standing in a far corner, nodding along as Luna spoke animatedly to him, and let out a breath of relief. In a crowd of near-strangers, the sight of her friends felt like a life raft being tossed out to her as she was drowning at sea. She started weaving her way toward them, ducking past students and elves carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and someone who she suspected may be a vampire, and was just maneuvering around Blaise Zabini and his date when she collided with none other than Professor Slughorn himself. 

“Well, well,” he boomed jovially, holding her by the shoulders as though admiring her, “Miss Granger, how lovely to have you here!”

“Thank you, sir,” she said with a forced smile. “It’s a lovely party.”

It wasn’t, actually, not in her opinion: she didn’t like seeing elves doing extra work for no pay, and there was mistletoe hung everywhere as some sort of cheeky joke, and everyone there seemed to be engaging in small talk that didn’t truly interest them. But she couldn’t exactly say any of this to her Potions professor.

“Oh, thank you, my dear, thank you,” he smiled. “I’m happy to have bumped into you, I was just telling the Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement - old friend, you know, our fathers used to go on hunting trips together - how I’ve got the brightest witch of her age in one of my classes.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hermione distractedly, glancing over to the corner where she had seen Harry and noting with a rush of dismay that he was no longer there. 

“The Ministry’s accepting summer internships, you know,” continued an oblivious Slughorn, “and I’d be happy to put in a good word for you.”

These words just barely registered with her. “Oh - no, thank you - I don’t fancy working in law.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Cormac’s hulking form. He was swaying a bit on the spot - drunk, Hermione supposed. 

“Well, what department do you fancy, then, dear?” Slughorn continued. “I’ve got contacts throughout the Ministry, you know, just one quick Floo-call is all it takes-“

“Oh, I-“ Hermione knew she should have been thrilled at this prospect. Had he brought it up during class, she would have been elated at the prospect, but right now she was suffocating under the weight of all of it, and she just wanted to escape. “Will you excuse me, please-“

Without waiting for an answer, she hurried off, hoping desperately that the throngs of partygoers would keep her hidden as she continued her search for Harry. She had begun to regret showing up to the thing at all. She was starting to believe that she would have been better served by borrowing a Puking Pastille from Ginny and letting it take its toll on her, rather than spending time at this event that did nothing but seize her insides with anxiety. The whole party had been a mess from the moment it had been announced, and she should not have been so foolish as to think it would be any better once it actually arrived.

She found her way to a back corner of the room, leaned against the wall, and took a deep, calming breath. Harry and Luna had to be around somewhere - it wasn’t that big a room - but if she didn’t find them in the next five minutes, she was leaving. She had already suffered through her requisite interaction with Professor Slughorn, and there was no real point to any of the rest of it. Her shoes pinched her feet and her dress robes were digging into her shoulders and all she wanted was a cup of tea and Crookshanks in her lap and to forget that she had ever even been there.

Hermione surveyed the party again. Cormac had taken an entire tray of vol au vents from a very distressed house elf and was now sloppily shoving them into his mouth, the very sight of which made Hermione’s stomach turn. But he had, for the time being, opted to leave her alone, and she supposed it possible - though unlikely - that he had actually taken Ron’s warning to heart. More probable was that he was too distracted by taking surreptitious sips from a flask and casually tormenting elves to remember that she even existed.

And then she saw, with a great surge of relief, Luna’s dirty-blonde hair hanging in thick, scraggly waves down her back, and started toward her. She kept her eyes fixed unwaveringly on her as she wound through the crowd, determined not to lose sight again. Her escape plan had finally taken form: reach Luna, ask her to tell Harry that she was leaving, and return to Gryffindor tower to change into pajamas as quickly as humanly possible. She stepped deftly around a house elf and dodged a couple in the midst of a full-on snog underneath a sprig of mistletoe, and just as she was about to call Luna’s name, she collided with someone wearing bright pink dress robes.

“Oh!” exclaimed Hermione, stumbling back, “I’m so sorry - oh.” She had straightened up to look directly into the big green eyes of Lavender Brown. “Hi.”

“Hi, Hermione!” said Lavender, just a bit too brightly, in the same instance that Hermione looked behind her and saw-

Ron. Tall and striking, the deep navy of his dress robes bringing out the blue in his eyes, offsetting the vibrant glow of his ginger hair and the burning flush that had risen in his cheeks. Hermione felt like all of the blood in her body was being drained away at the sight of him.

“How - how are you?” Lavender continued, a wide smile forced onto her lips. “Are you having a good time?”

“Yes,” Hermione lied, “are you?”

She could feel Ron’s gaze on her, despite her enormous effort not to look at him. Because if she looked at him, really looked at him, then it became real. Then she had to accept that he was here and he wasn’t with her, and all those little fantasies she had let herself entertain in the fall were never, ever going to come true. That it was never going to be her and Ron, that she had let him slip away and she had only herself to blame.

“Oh, yes,” said Lavender, “it’s such a lovely party - and I love your dress robes, those are so pretty!”

Hermione looked down at her attire, and then back up at Lavender. “Thank you,” she replied, as a panic built in the pit of her stomach and slowly rose up to her chest, pressing on her lungs and her heart. “Erm - excuse me-“

She spun on her heel, staggering a bit as she went, and this time she didn’t care about finding Harry or Luna or if she met a vampire on her way out. She needed to escape, and she needed it now, and by the time she reached the door she would have been sprinting had her shoes not slowed her down. The corridors were quiet and empty and her steps rang out as she hurried to Gryffindor tower, each one echoing off the walls and reminding her just how spectacularly she had screwed everything up.

Panting, Hermione gave the password to a slightly tipsy Fat Lady and stepped into the cold, quiet common room. Only one lantern was lit, at a far table where she had once, in a different lifetime, sat with Ron and coaxed him into doing his homework. And the armchair near the hearth, where the fire had burned out into mere glowing embers… had it only been mere weeks ago that they had woken up together there, and Ron had kissed her as though she was the only thing in the world that mattered? It sometimes felt like she had dreamed it, her life was so different now.

She kicked off her shoes and headed barefoot up the stairs to her dormitory. The small circular room was empty too, save for Crookshanks, who had curled up in a furry orange ball atop her duvet. The sight of him was immensely comforting, and after changing into her pajamas, Hermione climbed onto her bed and pulled the cat into her lap. He burrowed his head under her hand, so she scratched lightly behind his ears, eliciting a rumbling purr from deep within him.

As eager as she’d been to leave the party, it was still rather early, and the whirring in Hermione’s brain told her that sleep was still hours and hours off. Careful not to disturb Crookshanks, she retrieved a book from under her bag -  _ A History of Magic  _ \- and opened it up to a random page. She had read it so many times already that she had essentially committed it to memory, and the words entered and left her brain without ever really registering. The only thing on her mind was the image of Ron in those dress robes, and the infinite possibilities of what he was doing there with Lavender now that she, Hermione, had left… the mere thought made her ache.

There was a soft, hesitant knock on one of the posts of her bed. 

“Hermione?” 

Setting down her book, Hermione slid open the hangings to see Lavender, still in her dress robes, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“Yes?”

“Erm…” Lavender gave a feeble smile. “I just wanted to talk to you about, erm, the whole - the whole Ron thing?”

“The - the whole Ron thing?” repeated Hermione as Crookshanks stood and started kneading her thigh with two large paws.

“I know I should have thought about it before,” began Lavender, “and I wasn’t intending on going with him, really, but then Seamus accidentally set Professor Flitwick on fire during class and he’s in detention, so - so I just thought maybe Ron would want to go.”

These words all rushed very quickly from her lips, and then she stood, toying with a lock of her shiny hair, and clearly awaiting a response.

“Oh,” replied Hermione numbly. “I see.”

“I just thought that since you and him aren’t going out anymore that it would be all right if I invited him.”

She wrung her hands nervously in front of her, sparkly nail polish catching the light. 

Hermione nodded, slowly, carding her fingers through the thick fur along Crookshanks’ back.

“It’s fine,” said Hermione, though her throat constricted as she spoke. “We, erm - you’re right, we’re not together.”

“Okay,” said Lavender in a breath, visibly relieved. “Good. Because he seemed really happy to go.”

“Right.”

“So - so we’re okay?”

Hermione nodded again. “It’s fine.”

“And honestly, it wasn’t anything serious,” continued Lavender, “I don’t think it’s-“ her expression sobered a bit- “well - I just thought I should make sure it was all right with you, as we’re dorm mates and all.”

“It’s fine,” said Hermione. Why wouldn’t this conversation just end already? Each time she had to say the words, they became more painful.

“All right,” said Lavender with a bracing smile. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I hope you had fun tonight.”

“You too,” Hermione found herself saying as Lavender flitted away.

As the other girl changed out of her formalwear, pulling gold hoops from her ears and dropping charm bracelets into her jewelry box, Hermione drew the hangings closed again and laid back on her bed. And as Crookshanks settled himself on her stomach, hot, silent tears dribbled from Hermione’s eyes.

•••

“I’m so glad you’re home for the holidays this year, dear,” said Mrs. Granger from the passenger seat of the car, twisting around to beam at Hermione. “It’s been so long since we’ve spent Christmas with you.”

“I’m glad too,” said Hermione from the backseat, and she found that she meant it: her mum and dad had positively glowed with joy when they’d met her on the platform at King’s Cross. “It’s nice to be home.”

“What’s Ron doing with his family for Christmas?” Mrs. Granger continued with the same eager smile. “You’d be welcome to have him over on Boxing Day if you’d like - I’m sure your father would be happy to drive to Devon and pick him up, it’s no trouble at all-“

Hermione’s stomach clenched as her father smiled goodnaturedly at her in the rearview mirror. “Well,” she interjected, trying to keep her voice from shaking, “he, erm - he won’t be able to come over.”

At this, her mum looked positively crestfallen. “He won’t?”

“No, well-“ Her mind raced to formulate an excuse. “His family’s all gone to Romania, you know, to see his brother Charlie. He’s the one who works on the dragon reserve, so they don’t see him much - so, you know, they’ve gone to see him.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Mrs. Granger in disappointment. “I suppose you could bring him his gift when you go back in January, that’ll be all right too - just make sure you tell him, dear, that we wanted him to have it in time for the holiday…”

But Hermione had stopped listening. “You’ve gotten him a gift?” she asked faintly.

“Of course, he’s important to you, and it was lovely having him stay over the summer - have a look at it,” said Mrs. Granger, “it’s there on the seat next to you.”

“I picked it out,” added Mr. Granger with a note of pride. 

Hermione wasn’t sure what made her do it - dark curiosity, perhaps, or a sense that she needed to be somehow punished for the sheer volume of lies that she continued to feed to the people who loved her - but she pulled the white garment box onto her lap and opened the lid.

A Liverpool kit, bright red, with the club emblem on the left side and the Carlsberg logo emblazoned boldly across the front, stared up at her. 

“He’ll be the only one in his family with a Premier League kit, won’t he?” said Mr. Granger, the excitement in his voice like a knife in Hermione’s heart. “I’m not at all sure what wizards wear for their sport, but I hope he likes it.”

Were it not for her mother, watching expectantly from the passenger seat, Hermione might have burst right into tears. There had to be something wrong with her, some sort of fundamental defect, for her to continue to lie to such generous, well-intended people, and what was worse, she still could not find the words inside herself to course-correct. Not when she was holding the gift they had purchased for her supposed boyfriend on her lap.

And if she did tell them, if she actually sat them down and explained the sheer depth of her deception… she could hardly stand to imagine their disappointment. And then what? Would she tell them where she really was last Christmas, or how their fourth year at Hogwarts had really ended? Would she explain that the odd scars on Ron’s arms weren’t actually from a potion gone wrong, or how she’d really gotten the bruise on her chest that still hadn’t completely faded?

“So?” asked Mrs. Granger expectantly. “What do you think, dear?”

She would have to tell them. One day, she would tell them everything… but today was not that day.

“It’s great,” she said, stretching her lips into what she hoped was a believable smile. “I’m sure he’ll love it.”

 


	13. The One With The Prefect Rounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your reactions and thoughtfulness and enthusiasm for the last chapter and the story itself really mean the world to me. I hope you like this next one. 
> 
> Oh! And once again this contains some direct quotes from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince which of course I do not take credit for.

“Your move, mate,” said Ron amiably, leaning back against the front of the sofa and watching with satisfaction as his queen dragged a pawn off the chessboard. “Harry?”

“Huh?” Harry shook his head as though snapping himself out of a daze.

“It’s your go,” chuckled Ron. “We’ve got a match going here, remember?”

“Right, right.” His face oddly pink, Harry peered intently at the chessboard in consideration.

Across the room, Fred and George were in the midst of a demonstration of their latest invention - from what Ron had gleaned, it appeared to be some sort of card game - for Bill and Ginny. None of it seemed particularly enthralling, and yet Harry kept glancing up at them, oddly transfixed.

Harry had never been the most challenging chess opponent for Ron, but as the Christmas hols had worn on, he had become increasingly distracted until Ron was considering just playing chess against himself - at this point, it would have posed more of a challenge than his actual, real opponent. 

“It’s all right if you want to hang out with them instead,” said Ron teasingly with a jerk of his chin in the direction of his siblings.

“No!” said Harry, oddly frantic. “No, no, no, I was just - just staring into space, is all.” He turned back to the chessboard with an almost-comical expression of focus on his face. 

“Honestly, doesn’t matter what you do,” Ron added. “I’ll have you in check in four moves.”

Suspicious, Harry narrowed his eyes at Ron. “You’re probably just saying that.”

“Maybe, but you don’t really _know_ , do you?”

Harry’s scowl deepened, and he shifted in his seat on the worn carpet to tuck one sock-covered foot under the opposite knee. 

“So when’s the last time you talked to Hermione?” asked Harry, his green eyes sharp and inquisitive. 

Ron sighed and tipped his head back against the sofa cushion. “All right, fine, I was bluffing-“

“No, seriously. I’m actually asking.”

“I don’t know,” said Ron dismissively. “And it’s still your turn.”

“You don’t know,” repeated Harry, skeptical as he leaned back on his palms. “Not at all?”

“I saw her at Slughorn’s thing for a couple minutes, but we didn’t actually talk.” He rubbed a hand over the side of his nose. “Lavender did all of the talking. The whole night, actually.”

Harry’s expression had morphed into one of concern. “Are you just never gonna talk to each other ever again?”

Ron looked back down at the familiar figures on the chessboard; one of the knight’s horses pawed impatiently at the ground. 

“I don’t know,” he said quietly.

There was just no good way to explain it all to Harry, not now, not without telling him everything - about the wedding, and McLaggen, and how they’d spent what was purportedly a romantic afternoon at Madam Puddifoot’s on the verge of hexing each other. As insane as it was, he and Hermione had agreed that they would not tell another soul, and to divulge it all to Harry now felt akin to betrayal.

“Things kind of just fell apart,” he added finally, because that at least was something truthful that he could say. “Sorry, I know it makes it awkward for you.”

Harry shrugged a shoulder. “It’s not the first time it’s happened… and last time it took a hippogriff being sentenced to death, so maybe there’ll be another near-tragedy that’ll put things right.”

“Hmm,” replied Ron vaguely; he didn’t much like thinking about their feud during third year. “Still your move, though, mate.”

“Or you could just talk to her.”

“Yeah, or _you_ ,” blurted Ron, frustrated, “could stop putting off your inevitable defeat and actually do something here.” 

Indeed, all of the game pieces on the board had turned expectantly in Harry’s direction, awaiting instruction.

“You know she didn’t mean anything by it,” said Harry as he nudged one of his pawns across the board and rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “At the match, I mean. The whole… Felix thing.”

Ron nodded, his eyes back on the chess board, the voices and laughter of his siblings mere white noise in the background of his own whirring thoughts.

Because Harry was right. Hermione hadn’t meant anything by it, and that was the worst of it. She had so often doubted him that it was a natural response by the time the Felix Felicis came into their lives.

He supposed he could talk to her, once they got back to Hogwarts. But what would he even say? Was he expected to just march up to her in the corridor and explain that he missed her, that he’d completely lost the plot after that kiss in the common room and he wanted nothing more than to go back to November and fix it all? Even if he could summon the very specific brand of courage required to do such a mad thing, it wasn’t going to help. The past six months had been nothing but a test on the strength of their friendship, and it had, without them knowing, been slowly cracking and splintering under the strain of it all until, finally, it had broken completely. 

“And all that stuff with Krum,” added Harry, making Ron’s stomach twist, “it was from back in fourth year, it doesn’t really matter-“

“Just drop it, will you?” Ron requested, picking up his gaze to look directly at his friend. “All your meddling’s not going to change anything-”

“I’m not meddling-“

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ron sharply, heat rising in his face. “It’s over, so just stop. Please.”

Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair, making it stand on end even more than usual. “Right. Sorry.”

“S’okay.”

Ron focused once again on the chess board, wracking his brain to recall the strategy he’d devised and trying to pretend like the pieces weren’t blurring before his eyes.

•••

The trip from King’s Cross to Hogsmeade had never seemed so long. Despite having the whole compartment to herself, Hermione could settle to nothing; had the seat cushions on the Hogwarts Express always been so stiff and uncomfortable? She tried sprawling across the bench, but she couldn’t find a position that didn’t make her neck ache or her limbs go numb, so then she tucked herself into a little ball against the window with a paperback book on her lap, only to find that the book itself - a novel her mum had insisted she take with her - was doing nothing to capture her attention. It only served to remind her why she preferred to read non-fiction; there was simply no point letting herself live in a fantasy world. She’d been doing it since June, and it had only served to bring her pain in the end. 

Shifting in her seat again, she tossed the book back into her trunk and stared out the window. The train was still barely out of London, the landscape outside showing tidy rows of identical homes and perfectly manicured lawns. Hogwarts, with its great black lake and steep snow-topped mountains, seemed an entire world away.

All through primary school, Hermione had trained herself - out of necessity, more than anything - to be satisfied with her own company. She had never known how to make friends, had never been the one to gravitate toward groups of other children in the lunchroom or on the playground. That she had become so close with Ron and Harry had been something of an anomaly, born out of a shared trauma, and they were not the sort of friends she had ever expected to make - they loved sports and they were vulgar in that way only teenage boys could be and they never, ever felt like doing their schoolwork - but somewhere along the line, she had come to find that she could not imagine her life without him. And now she was on the train, alone, and facing a very quiet term.

Harry would still be friendly. He usually was, even when he had sided with Ron. But Ron… even the thought of him made her stomach twist uncomfortably. She had spent her entire term retracing the past several weeks in her mind, over and over, wishing irrationally that she could turn the pages of the calendar back to June and never invite him to that stupid wedding in the first place. Everything had been fine, at least with their friendship, before they’d gone and built a web of lies that really, in the end, hadn’t helped anything at all.

Not to mention there was still a Liverpool kit at the bottom of her trunk.

A knock sounded on the glass door to the compartment, and Hermione looked away from the window to see Head Boy Eddie Carmichael standing just outside. Scooting across the bench, she reached out an arm to slide the door open.

“Hi, Hermione,” said Eddie politely; he was already in his school robes. “How was your break?”

“It was fine,” she replied, “yours?”

“Quite good. Listen, we’re going to have a small prefect meeting in the usual compartment in a few minutes, I just wanted to stop by and let you know.” He seemed to notice, for the first time, that she was alone. “Where’s Ron Weasley?”

“Erm, I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t think he’s on the train.”

“What?”

“I didn’t see him on the platform.” Not that she’d been looking, she told herself - but he was never difficult to spot in a crowd. “Harry Potter stayed with him over the break, so they might be coming back a different way.”

“Oh, all right. Well, it’s not a big deal, you can pass along the information to him, can’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, already deciding that she would use Harry as a messenger. 

“Brilliant, then we’ll see you in a few minutes.”

He gave her another friendly smile and continued down the aisle in search of more prefects. Hermione peeked into Crookshanks’ basket to find he was still slumbering peacefully, his bottle-brush tail curled around his body and tickling the tip of his squashed nose, and stood up from her seat. At least a meeting would pass the time.

She was the second prefect to join the Heads in the compartment: only Hannah Abbott had arrived before she did, and she greeted Hermione with her usual brightness and cheer, inquiring about her holiday. As the others gradually trickled in - Anthony Goldstein, Ernie MacMillan, Padma Patil - Eddie passed out sheets of parchment bearing the patrol schedules for the upcoming month of January. 

“If everyone could please take a look at these,” said Eddie, “and let me know if you have any conflicts. I pushed the start time back an hour to try to accommodate things like Quidditch and Charms club, but if something needs to be changed, I’ll need to know right away…”

Hermione stopped listening; her stomach had dropped into her shoes. There, as plain as day, was her name inked onto the parchment for tomorrow night’s rounds - right next to Ron’s. 

She knew she should not have been surprised, and she wasn’t really - she’d had to do prefect rounds with everyone, with the notable exception of Draco Malfoy (who, the one time she had been assigned with him, had not even shown up) - but she had not expected it to be so soon. She was still recovering from dodging questions and fabricating stories about him for her family, and now she had to spend a night walking around the school with him. Alone. With the last several weeks hanging in the air between them.

But then they weren’t on the schedule together again for another two months, so perhaps it was better to get the unpleasantness over and done with. 

It wasn’t as if it could get any worse.

•••

“It’s kind of hard to describe,” Harry was saying to an unusually captive group of students in the common room the following night. The appearance of a notice on the bulletin board advertising Apparition lessons had caused a flurry of excitement with the sixth years, and Ron’s announcement during their Charms lesson that Harry had already Side-Along Apparated with Dumbledore had made Harry the subject of incessant questioning that had continued even after dinner. “It just feels weird, I don’t know.”

“But like, weird how?” Seamus persisted from his seat in front of the hearth beside Dean and Ginny. “Does it hurt?”

Despite having already had this exact same conversation with Harry months ago, when they’d first learned of it, Hermione couldn’t help but listen. She had read all about Apparition, she understood the theory perfectly, and she had already turned in her twelve Galleons to Professor McGonagall to sign up for the course, but it was always helpful to hear a first-hand account.

The only problem was that Ron was in his usual place next to Harry on the sofa, and having him in her line of sight, with his bright blue eyes and his big freckled hands (and had he gotten taller over the Christmas hols?) just made her insides burn with a feeling that she couldn’t quite identify. Guilt, maybe. Longing, definitely. 

“No, it doesn’t hurt, it just makes you dizzy-”

“Like a Portkey?” asked Neville hopefully.

“Not really,” said Harry with a furrowed brow. “Because you don’t like, land and fall over, you’re just sort of, you know, there all the sudden.” He stole a glance at his watch. “I’ve got to go, I, erm - I’ve got to return a book to the library before it closes.”

Standing from his seat, he grabbed his rucksack from the floor and strode off toward the portrait hole. The chatter amongst the students turned to the content of the Apparition lessons - surely they wouldn’t start with trying to Apparate right away, Parvati Patil was saying, the risk of Splinching was too great - and if anyone thought it was a bit out of character for Harry to be rushing off to the library at this time of night, nobody mentioned it. Even Ron maintained a perfect poker face, though Hermione knew he was likely dying with curiosity at the content of this latest lesson with Dumbledore.

She suspected, anyway. She used to think she could read him like a book, but she had misunderstood everything last autumn, and maybe, she thought, she really didn’t understand him very well at all.

At exactly one minute to eight, she rose from her table and approached him, hoping her steps were steady even as her knees felt made of jelly. He had his attention fixed rather pointedly on the holiday edition of _Quidditch Quarterly_ , which bore a picture of Chudley Cannons chaser Dragomir Gorgovitch on the cover, and didn’t look up until Hermione cleared her throat.

“What’s up?” he asked, his features still quite neutral. 

“We have rounds,” she told him, “are you ready?”

He shrugged, eyes flicking down to the magazine. “You can just go,” he said, “I’m sure I’ll just be in the way.”

Anger spiked in her. “You can’t just skip rounds, if McGonagall finds out, you’ll be in so much trouble.”

He opened his mouth, paused, and then closed it again. Tossing the magazine onto the floor (Gorgovitch, on the cover, looked rather affronted by this abrupt dismissal), he hauled himself up from the sofa. Hermione hadn’t been imagining it: he had gotten taller over the break, and she found herself looking directly at the red and gold knot of his tie, right at the base of his throat.

“Fine,” he said shortly, stepping around her to make his way to the portrait hole. “Let’s go.”

The corridors, as they started on their usual path to the dungeons, were deathly quiet. Every move they made, every step, every breath, bounced off the walls, marking the terrible, tense silence between them. They used to chatter endlessly during prefect rounds, whether it was fretting about Harry or Ron recounting some ridiculous story from his childhood. Now, she looked at him, and there were so many words bubbling up inside of her, so many things she wanted to say, that she couldn’t possibly choose the right ones with which to start.

Down in the dungeons, the air was cold and damp with the mid-winter chill, and Hermione pulled the sleeves of her robes down to cover her fists. It must have been this - and definitely not her mere presence - that had Ron picking up speed in his steps, his long stride carrying him smoothly down the halls. Because their friendship could not possibly have deteriorated to the point where merely existing in the same space was intolerable. She would not go back to the September of her first year; she could not even bear the thought.

“There’s not gonna be anyone down here,” said Ron, as if reading her mind. “Let’s just go back upstairs.”

Despite herself, Hermione privately agreed. She wouldn’t ever admit it aloud to him, but the Aurors patrolling the castle had rendered prefect rounds almost entirely irrelevant. Ever since the attack on Katie Bell, the professors had far greater concerns than peckish preteens sneaking to the kitchens, and those concerns were matters best handled by the Aurors anyway.

“We need to at least stop by each floor,” Hermione reasoned. “So we can say that we have.”

“You’re really expecting to be questioned about this?”

“I’m just saying, skiving off on rounds is serious, you could be taken off the Quidditch team for it-”

Ron scoffed, his breath fogging before him. “That might be for the best.”

“I’m sure Harry doesn’t feel that way.”

“Everyone else probably does.” 

Ron took the steps up to the ground floor two at a time, then waited on the landing for Hermione to catch up with him. 

“You think they’d rather have Cormac?” asked Hermione skeptically as they walked past the entrance to the Great Hall.

“If he can block goals, then yeah, they probably would.” His eyes fixed on a distant point ahead of them, he drew his wand from one of the deep side pockets on his robe and twirled it idly in one hand. “Speaking of…”

“Speaking of what?”

“He didn’t bother you at the Slughorn thing, did he?”

There was nothing to read into, Hermione told herself firmly. It was simple human decency to want to ensure that she was safe. It didn’t mean his feelings extended any further than common courtesy.

“No,” said Hermione shortly as they turned a corner and almost walked directly through the Grey Lady. “I think he forgot I was there.”

Ron nodded. “The one time I saw him, he was completely off his face.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Well, that’s good, then,” he added, sidestepping another ghost and tossing his wand from his right hand to his left. “Sounds like he’s done bothering you.”

“I suppose so,” said Hermione, feeling horrified and betrayed by the lump developing in her throat. “So you can - I mean, you don’t have to… to bother with any of this anymore.”

“Bother with - bother with what?” Ron asked faintly.

“Well, just, with me and - and all of this. I mean, he’s clearly gotten over it, so I… I’m fine,” she lied. She wondered when she might start saying that and actually mean it. “You’re off the hook, all right, you - you can be a free agent now. You can do whatever you want.”

“Yeah,” he replied tersely. “Got it.” He cleared his throat and shoved his wand back into his pocket. “Look, this is a waste of time, all right? I’m going back to the common room. I don’t care what you tell McGonagall.”

And he took off, leaving Hermione frozen in her tracks.

•••

Ron didn’t look another soul in the eye as he stalked back into the common room. He ignored Seamus calling his name, ignored Ginny’s inquisitive stare, ignored the little first-year who came rushing up to him to make sure he didn’t forget his copy of _Quidditch Quarterly_ , and beelined directly to his dormitory, where he flopped down onto his bed without bothering to change out of his robes.

_You can be a free agent now. You can do whatever you want._

Did she mean Lavender? She probably thought that he’d gone to the Christmas party with her because he really wanted to, not because she had asked and he didn’t want to be rude in turning her down, and because he did want to check and make sure McLaggen stayed away from Hermione. 

There was something in the back of his mind that kept pestering him, that kept surfacing in darker moments like this one, like those nights when he had lain awake in his little twin bed at his parents’ house and listened to Harry snoring from the camp bed across the room. Something he’d said over the summer, when the facade with Hermione was still fresh and new and hilarious in their eyes. They’d only been talking about Quidditch and books, silly things really in the grand scheme of things, but he’d meant what he had said about how never loving something in the first place made it easy to let the thing go.

And Hermione had let him go. Just like that. 

_You can do whatever you want._

But he couldn’t. Not when the thing he wanted most in the world was to just have her back in his life, to not watch what had once been a fierce friendship slip away until they were little more than strangers… but she had made it clear that it was already lost.

He had learned, growing up, not to want for much. It always ended in disappointment. But with her, he had slipped. He’d let himself want her, let himself need her, let himself foolishly believe that maybe this could happen for him… and he thought, with a pang that ran so much deeper than anything else, that he should have known better. He knew now that he must have imagined it, fabricated it just like the rest of their relationship.

The click of the dormitory door opening prompted Ron to sit up in a feeble attempt to seem as though he hadn’t been lying on his bed, despondent, for Merlin knew how long - but it was just Harry, who looked both elated and anxious. 

“Oh, you’re back already?” he said to Ron, yanking his robes over his head and letting them drop in the general vicinity of his trunk.

“Yeah, I-” Ron could not bring himself to reflect too closely on his conversation - if one could call it that - with Hermione. “How was Dumbledore?”

Harry looked shiftily around the empty dorm room, as though he didn’t quite trust the relative privacy of it, and cast Muffliato upon the two of them. “So he wants me to get a memory from Slughorn…”

So Ron listened, rapt and immensely grateful for the distraction, as Harry explained the contents of the latest memory that he had Dumbledore had viewed in the Pensieve, and the introduction of something called Horcruxes, and how Harry and Harry alone was the only person with any chance of obtaining the non-doctored version of Slughorn’s interaction with a teenager Tom Riddle. 

“That’ll be easy,” said Ron confidently. “He loves you, he’ll give you whatever you want.”

“I don’t know,” replied Harry. “It sounds like he’s really ashamed of what actually happened, I’ll have to think about what to do - anyway. How was rounds?”

“How was rounds?”

“Come off it, I know you were with Hermione - she made me give you that schedule, remember?”

“Right.”

“So how was it?”

“Erm…” Ron picked up the end of his tie, fiddling with the silky crimson and gold fabric. His mind flashed back, unbidden, to six months ago in Hermione’s kitchen, her body close and her small hands knotting her father’s tie around his neck, their conversation playful and easy. It felt like a different lifetime. “Let me put this way. I think you’re gonna be telling these stories twice from now on.”

Harry winced sympathetically. “Sorry, mate.”

“Yeah. So’m I.”

•••

_You don’t have to bother with any of this anymore._

But she wasn’t a bother, she never had been, not since the moment their friendship had been forged. He wanted to worry about her; he had always felt that it was the very thing he was best at. He was always the one to make sure she didn’t run herself ragged during exam time, and he’d been the only one who even noticed something was amiss when she’d been using a Time Turner to take way too many classes. But he thought he knew what she really meant when she told him not to bother with her problems; she just wanted him to leave her alone.

Still, he could not help but be the one noticing - though it was now from what felt like an insurmountable distance - that she was sitting alone in the Great Hall at every meal, day after day, week after excruciating week. He was definitely the only one who cared that she had gotten so flustered trying to brew an antidote in Potions that she’d actually put a snippet of her own hair into the cauldron. He wanted to worry about her. He wanted to care about her; he couldn’t help but.

But she didn’t want him caring about her - not as a real boyfriend, not as a fake boyfriend, not as a friend… not at all.

“Happy birthday, Ron,” said Harry as they woke on the morning of the first of March to the raucous chatter of Seamus and Dean as they left the dormitory. “Have a present.”

Harry tossed a box onto the end of Ron’s bed, where it landed upon a small pile of festively-wrapped gifts. Sitting up, rubbing his eyes, Ron quickly scanned over the boxes, taking inventory. There would be one from his parents, surely - and he wondered if it would be the traditional watch given to a wizard coming of age, because after coughing up twelve Galleons for his Apparition lessons, he wasn’t sure how much they had left to spare for him - and the one wrapped in the bright orange Cannons paper was likely from Ginny, or maybe the twins… 

As Harry, distracted as ever by his conspiracy theories about Malfoy, began to dig through his trunk, Ron started ripping into the gifts. He knew his seventeenth was a big deal, but he still hadn’t expected such a haul: a set of leather Keeper gloves from Harry; an enchanted razor from Bill and Fleur; a broom compass from Ginny; a box of Romanian sweets from Charlie; and from his parents, a heavy gold watch with runes etched into the edge and tiny moving stars on the face of it. He gaped at it, holding it gingerly in his hands as though any sudden movement might make it disappear. It had not a scratch on it, not even a fingerprint; it still sat in a smart little box from Twilfit and Tatting’s.

“See what Mum and Dad got me?” said Ron excitedly to Harry, holding the watch up. “Blimey, I think I’ll come of age next year too.”

Harry spared him half a glance, muttering “cool” in response as he continued to forage through his trunk.

Ron’s happiness ebbed a bit, but not because of Harry’s lukewarm response. He’d opened everything, save for the box from Aunt Muriel (he did not want to know what sort of passive-aggressive insult masquerading as a present lay inside), and though it had been stupid to hope for it, there hadn’t been anything from Hermione. Not that he had been expecting anything. He had told himself as he’d gone to bed the night before that she probably wouldn’t even notice it was his birthday at all. But, foolishly, he’d hoped.

After fastening the watch carefully around his wrist, he stood up from his bed to change for breakfast and caught sight of a box of Chocolate Cauldrons lying on the floor in front of his bed. There wasn’t a note on them, but maybe they went along with someone else’s gift, or the other blokes in his dorm had pooled together to buy them. Or maybe the card had gotten separated… he prised open the lid and popped one in his mouth, chewing as he peered under his bed. He couldn’t stop himself thinking that Hermione, above all, knew just how much he loved chocolate.

But he found no note. Unconcerned, he sat down on the floor and took a bite out of another cake. They were stickier than usual, like the filling was different than it normally was, but he shrugged and offered one to Harry, who waved it off and kept digging through his trunk. 

He made an attempt to stand but his head swam, a bit, and he wondered vaguely why he was even sitting on the floor before the recollection came back to him. He’d been looking for a note from Hermione… but why? It didn’t seem at all important to hear from her. He stood, squinting against the spinning of the room - the sugar from the cakes was clearly going right to his head - and dismissed Harry’s invitation to breakfast. All his hunger had gone, and someone’s face kept swimming to the forefront of his mind. Someone with loads of black shiny hair, and dark gleaming eyes… Romilda Vane, that’s who it was. Merlin, she was beautiful, how had he never noticed it before? He needed to talk to her, he needed to see her… why couldn’t Harry understand? This was so much more important than breakfast. This was more important than anything, even the fuzziness in his brain, and the weird ache in his right hand - oh, he’d slugged Harry on the ear, that was the problem. Well, he’d said something mean about Romilda, so he probably deserved it…

But no. He couldn’t go to meet with Romilda in his pajamas, how mortifying - but then, they were soulmates, weren’t they, so she wouldn’t mind. He couldn’t wait to talk to her. Maybe she could finish her extra Potions lesson early, and spend the rest of the day and the week and the year with him, maybe the rest of his life. She could come to the Burrow and meet his family, she could go as his guest to Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and then they could have their own wedding, and lots of little red-haired babies. Or dark-haired babies. They would be more beautiful if they looked like her.

Slughorn wasn’t so bad after all. Tonic for the nerves, that was kind of him. He couldn’t think about sweet, beautiful Romilda without his stomach fluttering wildly, so he drank it down, all in one go.

Oh. _Oh._

With a groan, Ron sank down onto Slughorn’s tattered sofa, his face hidden behind his hands. When he dared peek, he saw Harry grinning at him.

“Back to normal, then?” 

As Slughorn puttered around, blathering on about Ron just needing a little pick-me-up and rummaging through his cabinets - for a professor, he really kept a lot of liquor in his office - Ron sank back into the cushions and prayed for his stomach to stop churning.

“Sorry I hit you,” said Ron, taking a deep breath to settle the overwhelming feeling that he was about to be sick all over Slughorn’s carpet.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Harry, still grinning. “You weren’t in your right mind.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.”

“I think you were on the point of proposing marriage.”

“I was,” admitted Ron with a dark chuckle at the insanity of it all. “Some birthday, huh?”

“It could still look up,” said Harry reasonably, at the very moment that Slughorn approached them with a bottle of oak-matured mead and three goblets.

“Nothing like a fine spirit to chase away the pangs of disappointed love,” said Slughorn jovially, passing around the passes. “There you are, then.”

Ron studied the amber liquid in his glass. He was seventeen, after all, it wasn’t illegal (Harry was a different matter, but Harry was above the rules in Slughorn’s eyes), and what a way to start his first day as a legal adult…

“Well,” added Slughorn, hoisting his glass in a toasting gesture, “a very happy birthday, Ralph-”

Rolling his eyes - the bloke was just never going to bother to learn his name, was he? - Ron took a deep swig from the goblet.


	14. The One In The Hospital Wing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some direct quotes from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince which obviously are not mine. Now let’s get on with it, shall we?

Probably having a lie-in, thought Hermione as she scooped porridge into her bowl, her eyes darting to the vacant stretch of bench that Ron and Harry usually occupied. It was Saturday, after all, and his birthday - she didn’t blame him for wanting to bask in the decadence of a day dedicated to celebrating his existence. 

Or maybe they’d snuck into Hogsmeade. She had overhead Ron, weeks ago, lamenting the cancelled trip, annoyed that they now only had Apparition lessons to look forward to, and she didn’t put it past either of them to put Harry’s cloak to use. It would be an absolutely asinine thing to do, downright reckless - the trip into the village had been cancelled for a reason, an incredibly good one, and it would not do for Harry to go walking around where Death Eaters could easily find him - which was exactly why she suspected that he and Ron had done exactly that.

Hermione sprinkled cinnamon over her porridge, stirred, and took a bite, though she hardly tasted it. She remembered her own seventeenth birthday as crisply and clearly as if it had happened yesterday: Ron sleeping on the sofa in the common room, the sweetness of the ice cream on her tongue, the rattle of the jar of hundreds-and-thousands as he poured them into the bowl. And now here they were, on his seventeenth, and she wasn’t even sure if she would see him. 

She had thought, briefly, about a gift for him. Nothing too elaborate or complicated, perhaps just a box of Chocolate Frogs or the book on chess strategies she had seen in the Flourish and Blott’s catalog. Something small, a way of extending the olive branch, a way of showing that just because they weren’t friends anymore didn’t mean she detested him.

But then she had actually gone to decide what to get him, and all the little ideas that had seemed viable back in February all seemed wrong. They were either too much or not enough, or she thought of a million ways that he could misinterpret it. The only idea she really liked was to give him a bowl of ice cream and a jar of hundreds-and-thousands, like he had done for her, but that felt too much like pretending they were actually friends, and it was quite clear that they weren’t anymore. They couldn’t exactly have in-jokes if they hadn’t spoken in two months.

She scraped her spoon around the side of the bowl, though her appetite was weak at best. Exams were coming up in a few months’ time, and she could almost hear the Ron of years past in her mind, insisting that she needed to eat a proper meal or all her studying would be for naught. 

“Thought you were waiting on Ginny,” Seamus was saying to Dean as the latter approached the table alone. “Or has she finally chucked you?”

Dean didn’t return Seamus’ teasing grin. “I was - I did - and then we were on our way here and McGonagall came up to us and said Ginny had to go with her, that something’s happened to Ron.”

Hermione’s head snapped over so fast that a joint popped in her neck. “Say that again,” she demanded, leaning over the table toward them. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” Dean repeated, looking a bit taken aback. “I just know he’s in hospital-”

“Well, what did she _say_?”

“Not a whole lot, just that they’ve taken Ron to the hospital wing and she was going to owl their parents.”

The gears whirred rapidly in Hermione’s brain as she pieced it all together. Ron was seventeen now, which meant that he was an adult in the eyes of wizarding society, which in turn meant that there was no obligation to alert his parents to anything that happened to him. Madam Pomfrey would only feel compelled to do so if the situation were truly dire, and it was this revelation that had Hermione scrambling up out of her seat, leaving her bookbag behind as she darted out of the Great Hall.

In her haste and frenzied state, she could hardly remember which way to go. She felt like a first-year all over again, when all the corridors had looked the same, but she bolted up a set of stairs only to find that it was just about to detach from the wall. There was nothing else for it: she took a running leap and flew over the widening gap, then hurried down the corridor, skidding around corners and ignoring the perplexed shouts of the portraits on the walls. At the end of the longest hall - did the castle really have to be so big? - Harry and Ginny stood outside the double-door entrance to the hospital wing, and Hermione broke into a full-on sprint for the final stretch.

“What’s going on?!” she panted as they goggled at her. “Is he okay? What’s happened?”

“Poison,” said Ginny simply, her face drawn and pale.

“ _Poison_?” Hermione rounded on Harry, adrenaline flooding her body with such intensity that she trembled. “How did he get - if this was some sort of stupid birthday prank gone wrong-”

Harry recoiled. “A birthday prank? Are you out of your mind?”

“Well, what happened then? I just heard Dean talking about it-”

“Oh, nice,” scoffed Ginny, though she still looked very subdued. “Glad it’s gossip already.”

“I am too, or I never would have known, so will someone just tell me what happened?” demanded Hermione again.

“So…” Harry gulped. “Basically, he accidentally ate these Chocolate Cauldrons that had love potion in them-”

“What?”

“Romilda Vane gave them to me months ago, probably so I’d bring her to that bloody party, only I never ate them. It’s a bit of a long story, but I took him to Slughorn’s office to get him an antidote - Ron was totally off his rocker, he even hit me-” He pointed to his ear, which did look rather red- “but anyway, Slughorn gave him the antidote and he came back to himself, and then Slughorn thought we ought to have some of this mead that he had, since it’s Ron’s birthday and all…” Harry trailed off, distress plain on his face. “And Ron drank it first and it was… he collapsed and he started choking, and, and turning blue, and… and I ran to get a bezoar and it seemed to work, and Slughorn went to get help, and… and they won’t let us in to see him yet.”

Hermione’s legs went weak, and not from all the running. “Oh my God,” she said quietly, leaning against the wall for support. “So… will he be all right?”

Harry shrugged helplessly. His green eyes were watering. “I don’t know.”

“Why would Slughorn want to hurt him?”

“I don’t think he did, I think - I don’t know. I don’t know what I think. I don’t know anything.”

Harry sank to the floor, his back against the wall, and Hermione followed suit. Hot tears flooded out of her eyes and down her cheeks, but she didn’t bother to wipe them away. 

Ron had to be okay. He had to. There was no other option, because if he wasn’t… if there was supposed to be a world that kept turning without Ron Weasley in it… the mere thought of it was despairing. That things might end like this, without him ever knowing how much he meant to her, and that despite it all, he was still her favorite person in the whole world. That their last words to each other were short and snippy and cold.

Outside, there was a war on. A real war. One that was edging its way through the castle walls and threatening every single thing that they knew and loved, and the things that had driven a wedge between them, like Quidditch and prefect duty, were so trivial and petty that Hermione might have laughed had her anguish not been so intense. For such a smart girl, she couldn’t believe how stupid she had been.

Professor Dumbledore strode up to them, his blue eyes solemn behind his half-moon glasses. He gave nods of acknowledgment to the three of them and used his wand to unlock the double doors. As he stepped inside, Ginny stood on tiptoe, trying to peer past him.

“See anything?” whispered Harry.

“No,” said Ginny ruefully, moving to sit cross-legged beside him on the stone floor. “He shut the door too fast, he doesn’t want us to see.”

“But he’s still in there? He’s not at St. Mungo’s?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t tell.” Ginny heaved a great sigh and rested her forearms on her thighs. “I just don’t get why Slughorn even had poisoned mead to begin with.”

“Dunno,” said Harry. “He said something about saving it for Christmas - or maybe he’d gotten it at Christmas, maybe it was meant for him.”

Hermione had not the heart to join in on the discussion. Their words washed over her without really registering; she could only think of Ron. Little memories that she hadn’t considered in ages kept forcing their way to the front of her mind, like the time during fourth year when Crookshanks had - to Ron’s amazement and immediate suspicion - curled up in Ron’s lap when they’d been helping Harry study defensive spells. The way he had played with the lever on the Grangers’ toaster the morning after Freya and David’s wedding, confused as to why the toast had to pop up like that for you to know it was done, “can’t you just look at it and tell?” How he’d kept ruffling his hair to make it look windswept after Gryffindor won the Quidditch cup during their fifth year. The way he had said, on a cold November morning at eleven years old, “I’m really sorry that I said you were a nightmare. I didn’t mean it.”

This couldn’t be it. It couldn’t be.

Around midday, Professor McGonagall brought their small vigil group a tray of sandwiches and a flagon of ice water as she entered the hospital wing. Once again, Ginny attempted to catch a glimpse of the goings-on inside, only to find herself disappointed. 

“It’s a good sign though,” said Harry reasonably. “That means he’s still here, he didn’t go to St. Mungo’s.”

“Yeah,” agreed Ginny, “but then why won’t they let us see him?”

And on and on it went. The sandwiches sat mostly untouched - Ginny picked at a slice of bread before tossing it back down onto the platter - and the discussion between her and Harry grew more repetitive, more circular. The most they had managed to conclude was that Ron’s poisoning was a complete accident, which did not serve to comfort any of them.

The sky outside had darkened to a deep slate blue when Mr. and Mrs. Weasley arrived. They hardly had time to dole out hugs and words of reassurance (which only caused Hermione’s guilt to grow - why were _they_ trying to comfort _her_? He was their son, after all) before they were whisked away to Dumbledore’s office. 

“They’d have told us, right?” said Ginny, watching her parents walk down the corridor. “If it was still really bad?”

“No news is good news,” said Harry with a commendable attempt at optimism.

Night had fallen in earnest when the double doors finally swung open, sending the platter of sandwiches sliding across the floor, and Madam Pomfrey poked her head out.

“He’s still sleeping,” she said kindly, “but you can come in and see him now.”

Relief flooded through Hermione with such gusto that fresh tears poured down her face again. Beside her, Harry stood and held out a hand to pull her to her feet, and together the three of them walked into the room. Only one bed was occupied, against the far wall, and Madam Pomfrey led them to it. 

Were it not for the pallor of Ron’s face and the many potion bottles set on the table beside him, he may well have been sleeping in his own bed. He looked peaceful, calm, comfortable. To think that mere hours ago, he had been choking on the floor of Slughorn’s office - Hermione shoved the notion into the back of her brain. He was alive, and that was what she wanted to focus on. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the occasional twitch of his hand upon the bedsheet, his sporadically fluttering eyelids. 

Hermione and Ginny took seats on either side of the bed, Hermione on his left. On his wrist gleamed a gold watch with little stars skittering across the face of it: his birthday gift from his parents, presumably. It looked brand-new, and her throat constricted at the thought of how excited he must have been.

At ten past eight, the twins swept in, a garishly-wrapped gift in George’s hands. They, like everyone else, wanted to hear the story of how everything had happened, and Harry launched into it, which only led to the same circular discussion that Harry and Ginny had been having in the hallway all day. Hermione half-listened, half-watched Ron, resisting the urge to take his hand in hers. 

“The poisoner could just as easily have been after Dumbledore,” Ginny was saying for probably the tenth time since that morning.

“Then the poisoner didn’t know Slughorn very well,” Hermione piped up, exhausted by their ruminations. Her voice was thick and low as she spoke. “Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he’d keep something that tasty for himself.”

Ron stirred in the bed, and all eyes snapped to him. “Er-my-nee,” he croaked, head shifting on the pillow as he mumbled a bit more, unintelligibly, then commenced snoring.

Hermione stared down at him, hardly noticing as the double doors burst open and Hagrid bustled in, leaving enormous muddy footprints in his wake. It was a silly thing to be worked up over, she told herself. There was no being certain that he had actually been trying to say her name. He was just mumbling in his sleep, like all people did, and it was likely just a coincidence that he mumbled out some syllables that, when strung together, sounded like her name… her incredibly uncommon name, at the very moment that she had spoken for the first time in hours…

But she had never really believed in coincidences, and she thought, even as Madam Pomfrey ushered them all out of the hospital wing a few minutes later, that she was not about to start.

•••

“Ugh,” groaned Ginny the next morning over breakfast, a slice of buttered toast halfway to her mouth, “seriously, McLaggen? You’re joking, right?”

“I wish,” said Harry morosely. “He cornered me last night and basically said ‘couldn’t help but notice your best mate almost died today, so you’ll be needing a new Keeper, yeah?’” He tossed his fork down onto his half-cleared plate in disgust.

“Just hold new tryouts,” Hermione attempted to reason from the seat beside Ginny. “He couldn’t argue that it’s unfair to do. Or, well, he probably would, but he’d be wrong.”

“There isn’t time,” Harry lamented. “The match is on Saturday, we’re meant to have practice tonight. Besides, he did come in second to Ron when I had tryouts the first time.”

“But he’s an arsehole,” said Ginny.

“I know, but it’s just for the one match.”

“Maybe you could play Keeper, and I’ll play Seeker, and we’ll find a backup Chaser-”

“I’m rubbish at Keeping,” said Harry, “and the rules say we’re not allowed to switch around that many players anyway…”

Hermione stopped listening to them. Her mind had latched onto the notion of Quidditch practice that evening, which would occupy Harry and Ginny’s time for at least a good couple of hours. They would want to be outside while it was still light, which meant the practice would take place before curfew… which meant the hospital wing would still be open.

She spent an impatient afternoon in the library helping Ginny revise for an upcoming History of Magic exam while Harry snuck down to the kitchens with the intention of smuggling baked goods into the hospital wing. Finally, when the clock struck five, Ginny tucked her copy of _A History of Magic_ into her rucksack.

“You can come watch the practice if you want to,” said Ginny, standing and stretching her arms up over her head. “It’s going to be a disaster, but you can still watch.”

“No, thank you,” replied Hermione, rising as well. “I thought I’d stop by the hospital wing.”

“Oh.” Ginny had visibly brightened at this news. “Good, that’s… that’s great.”

Hermione nodded. “It’s just a friendly visit.”

“Well,” Ginny continued, “thanks for all your help. The giant wars are still boring as sin, but-”

“But they’re not,” Hermione interjected, “not when you think about the lasting impact they’ve had upon the division of land in the northern mountain ranges - some of these disputes are actually still ongoing-”

“Oh my God,” Ginny moaned, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “please don’t start again, I’ve got to go.”

Ponytail swinging behind her, she hurried out of the library. Hermione waited until she heard the thud of the large oak door, then gathered up her own things and made her way into the corridor. The news of Ron’s poisoning had spread among the students, but hadn’t caused quite the panic that Katie Bell’s cursing had, likely because the horror of the poisoning was tempered by the fact that he was on his way to a full recovery. The castle, as a result, was moderately busy with students traveling to various clubs and meetings, and while Hermione struggled to understand it - despite the positive outcome, Ron had still been in grave danger - she did find the activity a welcome change of pace from the usual stifling quiet. 

Her heart beating just a little more quickly than was strictly normal, she pulled open the door to the hospital wing and made her way toward the bed at the back. Madam Pomfrey was tending to a pair of first-year boys who had somehow managed to swap their ears for their hands and were anxiously whimpering in the beds nearest the door. Sorry as she felt for them, this was good news for Hermione; she preferred not to be interrupted.

Ron was sleeping when she stepped behind the privacy curtain surrounding his bed, so she took a seat in the same chair she had occupied the night before and drank in the sight of him. The color had returned to his cheeks, and his face was not quite as wan as it had been, and these signs of health in him went a long way to soothe Hermione’s frayed nerves. Tentatively, she reached out a hand and cradled his in her own, warm and heavy, dotted with freckles, a faded scar curling across his knuckles. She had held his hand so many times in the past, but it was never like this. She’d had her guard up, before… but no longer. 

He stirred, one eye cracking open. “Hey,” he croaked, voice little more than a whisper.

“Hi,” Hermione said, just as quietly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’alright.” He used his free hand to push himself into a sitting position. “I’ve got to take essence of rue about every two hours, and it makes me sleepy. I’ve slept half the day.”

His hand rotated in hers so that their palms pressed together.

“How do you feel?”

Ron lifted one shoulder in a little shrug, his lips twitching. “I’ve been worse.”

“ _Have_ you?”

“I dunno,” he said, now smiling, “that’s just something you say, innit?”

“I don’t think it is, actually,” replied Hermione, and now she was smiling too. 

“Ahh, well. Biscuit?” he offered, jerking his head toward the bedside table, where a few gingersnaps lay on a plate. 

“No, thanks. So I take it Harry was here, then?”

“Yeah, for a bit. I didn’t…” Ron pushed himself up a bit more, though the effort made him grimace. “I didn’t think you’d stop by.”

And there it was. The light, easy mood had been swiftly replaced by the mere memory of the tension of the past few months. “Oh,” said Hermione, “well, I don’t have to stay, if you don’t want me to-”

“No.” Ron’s fingers tightened around hers. “No, you don’t know how glad I am to see you - I thought I heard your voice last night, but then I woke up and there was no one here, and I reckoned I dreamed it.”

“You didn’t dream it.”

“Listen, Hermione,” said Ron, eyes now big and bright and fixed directly on hers, “I don’t know how things got so bungled up with us lately, but... “ He appeared to be steadying himself. “Almost dying really makes you think - and I miss you so much.” He looked up at her, eyes pleading. “I know it’s been - I mean, this year’s been mental, but - I just want to be friends again. Can we just go back to that?”

It was now or never. And if she held back from him, if she put the walls back up, and never told him how she really felt, or what she really wanted, she might never have another chance. 

“We can,” she said shakily, “but that’s not really what I want - no, listen,” she added as disappointment crossed his features. “I know I’m not always good at being honest with everyone in my life, you know that better than anyone, but I want to change that, and I want to be honest with you, and…” She blinked rapidly, casting her eyes up to the ceiling, summoning the very specific sort of bravery that this confession required. “And I want more than that with you. Last year, the whole time we were pretending, I - I wasn’t pretending, not really. I wanted it to be real so, so badly-”

“We are both so stupid,” said Ron, awestruck.

Hermione blinked again; of every response he could have given, that was the last one she expected. “What?”

“I wanted it to be real too,” he said, his voice growing clearer, stronger, “I used to - it’s so stupid, but I used to imagine that it was. I just never in a million years thought you’d-”

Every cell in Hermione’s body felt like it was vibrating; she had never experienced adrenaline quite like this. “I do.”

“So do I.” Ron’s hand trembled around hers. “So then that means...”

“That we could make it real.”

He was beaming at her now, the tips of his ears flushed pink. “Could do, yeah.”

They could keep going back and forth. They could keep faffing about, passing the ball back into each other’s court… but that hadn’t gotten them anywhere in the past, and it wasn’t going to get them anywhere now. Before she could overthink it, Hermione tipped toward him, her free hand braced on the edge of the bed, and pressed her lips firmly against his.

Their mouths fit perfectly together, his lips soft and gentle and tinged with cinnamon from the biscuits, and Hermione sighed into him, forgetting where they were, aware of nothing but him and his warm fingers lacing through hers - but all too soon he broke away, gasping for breath.

“Sorry,” he panted, “I’m not s’posed to-” He gave a little chuckle of disbelief- “to get my heart rate up right now.”

“Oh, sorry-”

“No, don’t be.” He gave a little tug on her hand. “It’s worth it, come back here.”

She moved happily in again, softly kissing his lips, hardly able to believe that this was really her life.

“This…” His face was still so close to hers that she could see the flecks of silver in his irises. “This is real, right? This is it?”

“This is it.”

“I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and find out I dreamed it?”

“I can pinch you, if you’d like.”

“Nah.” He tilted his face up to brush their lips together. “I know it’s real.”

 


	15. The One Where Ron Kisses And Tells

Hermione had never considered skipping class before. Not once. The one time she had, it had been an innocent mistake: she had simply forgotten to set her Time-Turner back an hour so she could attend Charms class, and the guilt had gnawed at her for days afterward. Now, though, the draw of Ancient Runes was almost non-existent, and the appeal of the hospital wing - and more specifically, the young man occupying the bed farthest from the door - had drowned out all logic and reason.

She had never felt this way before in her entire life. Giddy, energized, in love with the whole world. The landscape outside her window as she leapt eagerly out of bed had never been more beautiful, and even the walk down to breakfast managed to delight her; she cheerfully greeted some of her favorite portraits on her way through the corridors, and once she reached the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, she found herself struck by the magnificence of it. All these years, she had grown accustomed to the enchanted ceiling, the ghosts floating by, the sheer volume of perfectly prepared food, but it was all so incredible. Everything about her life was incredible.

As she had barely waited until dawn to start her day, she was the first student to arrive to breakfast, which meant that she had nearly an hour before Ancient Runes was set to begin. The butterflies soaring gleefully around inside of her stomach had tamped down her appetite somewhat, and after a slice of toast and a few forkfuls of scrambled eggs, she abandoned her plate in favor of another trip down the corridors, this one to the set of double doors on the first floor. She found herself trembling with anticipation as she pulled open the door and stepped inside: she was going to see Ron again. She was going to kiss him, touch him, hold his hand... it was too good to be true, except that it was. It really was.

He was sitting up when she arrived, the blankets kicked away into a rumpled pile at the foot of the bed, a tattered copy of  _ Transfiguration Today _ open in his hands. Delight burst over his face at the sight of her, and the way he smiled at her, with the morning sun shining in through the windows and highlighting streaks of gold in his fiery hair, she thought there wasn’t a single person in the world as striking as him.

“Look at this thing,” he said as she approached, brandishing the magazine. “It’s the August 1987 issue, and it’s the newest one they have - they’ve got some from the sixties over there.” He pointed to a small wooden table bearing several faded magazines and yellowing newspapers, and then beamed at her again. “I am so happy to see you.”

“Why, because you’re bored?” teased Hermione as she seated herself in what she was now starting to consider her chair.

“No,” he said with a serious shake of his head. “‘Cause I always want to see you. You can…” Suddenly sheepish, he inched toward the opposite side of the bed. “You can come sit here with me, if you want.”

It did sound much better than sitting what felt like miles away from him on an ancient wooden chair, so she rose and repositioned herself on the small stretch of mattress next to him. His arm slipped behind her back, hand resting on her hip, as she scooted toward him until their thighs touched. His pajama bottoms were maroon, and his feet were bare.

“Look how much longer your legs are than mine,” said Hermione, bumping her foot against his calf. 

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re short-”

“No,  _ you  _ are just really tall-” She broke off as he turned his head and fitted his lips neatly against hers. It was so perfect, so right, that it sparked a tiny flame of anger inside her: what had they been thinking, waiting so long? Why had they let self-doubt and fear come between them, when they could have had  _ this _ ?

“Sorry,” he said, breathless, when at last they pulled back. “I keep forgetting that I’m allowed to do that now. And then I remember again, and…”

Nodding her understanding, Hermione moved to kiss him again. 

“I can’t wait to be out of here,” said Ron. “I really wish I could take you out on a proper date - none of that Madam Puddifoot’s business, mind you-”

“No, we both know that was a mistake,” Hermione agreed, “but really, you don’t have to. We aren’t allowed into Hogsmeade anyway.”

“But I want to, I feel bad that you have to come here all the time.”

“I don’t mind,” she said honestly, “I was thinking of maybe not going to Ancient Runes and staying here a little longer-”

“What?” he interrupted with a startled laugh. “Hermione Granger, willingly skiving off class?”

“I’d rather be with you.”

His arm hugged her a little closer into his side. “I’ll be out of here soon enough - and in the meantime, I’ve got plenty of time to think about where I’m taking you on a date. Maybe there’s a  _ Witch Weekly _ from 1975 over there to give me some ideas.”

With a little laugh, Hermione rested her head on his shoulder and let her eyes close. His fingers idly rubbed along her hip, tracing random shapes through the material of her robes. It was calm, peaceful, easy. So much more natural than she would have ever imagined, even during last year’s facade. It just made sense in a way that so few things around them did.

“Are you going to get in trouble for this?” asked Hermione quietly, resting a hand on his thigh.

“For what?”

“For having a girl in your bed?”

He chuckled. “Maybe, but it’s worth it. It’s all worth it.”

They passed the time in quiet conversation, nestled tightly together in the tiny twin bed, occasional kisses and soft touches being shared between them. Time seemed to be racing in the very instant that Hermione wished it would slow down, stop altogether, freeze and allow them to exist forever in one of the more perfect moments of her entire life. All too soon, Ron was lifting his wrist in front of them to show her the time on his sparkling new watch.

“I hate to say it, but you’ve got to go to class.” 

“I know,” sighed Hermione, forcing herself up off of the bed with all of the willpower she possessed. “I’ll come back for a bit during lunch.”

“Don’t feel like you have to-”

“I don’t,” she said plainly. “I feel like I want to.”

Bending over to place one last kiss on his mouth, she picked up her rucksack and made her way out of the hospital wing, not bothering to stop the smile spreading over her face.

Just outside the double doors, she nearly collided with Harry, who simply gave her a knowing look, shook his head with a laugh, and entered the hospital wing himself.

•••

“Here,” said Harry, wresting a thick stack of magazines from his rucksack and dropping them with a thump onto Ron’s lap. “Thought you might need some reading material from this decade.”

The crisp, glossy pages of the spring edition of  _ Quidditch Quarterly _ had never been such a welcome sight. Ron picked up the pile, savoring the weight of it in his hands, marveling at the moving photos of players who were not yet retired.

“Cheers,” said Ron happily, shifting some of the others onto his bedside table. “I’ve practically got the old ones memorized.”

“Yeah, so have I.” Harry flopped into one of the chairs next to the bed and stretched his legs out in front of him. “So, I saw you had a visitor this morning.”

“Oh.” There was no point fighting the broad smile stretching his lips. “Yeah.”

“So…” 

“So what?” At Harry’s withering,  _ stop-playing-dumb _ look, Ron merely lifted a shoulder. “I’m not one to kiss and tell, y’know?”

Harry’s jaw nearly hit his chest. “Seriously?”

“Seriously what? I haven’t said anything.”

They hadn’t exactly discussed it, he and Hermione, and a spark of anxiety shot through him as he realized he didn’t have the slightest idea of how to proceed. Back when they’d been pretending, they’d let their actions do the talking, rather than speaking the words aloud to everyone, but they’d also had an ulterior motive back then. They’d wanted to be showy, wanted it to be crystal-clear that they were an established couple. Now they had only just made it official, in a very real way, and his frame of reference had gone.

“Wow,” said Harry, sitting up a little straighter. “Third time’s the charm, then, right?”

From anyone else the words might have been skeptical, even barbed, but from Harry they were nothing but supportive, and Ron felt an almost overwhelming appreciation for his best friend. No one else understood the constant up-and-downs like he did.

“I know it sounds mental,” Ron found himself saying, “but it’s just different this time.”

“Well, that’s good, then,” said Harry. “I’m happy for you, plus it’s always nice for me when you’re not at each other’s throats, y’know?”

“Yeah, for me too.”

Harry reached down and pulled his rucksack onto his lap. “I’ve really got to finish this essay for Potions, did you ever finish writing that one on Golpalott’s Fifth Law?”

“No, I never even started it,” said Ron, “‘cause the professor for that class ended up poisoning me, so-”

Harry’s fist struck him on the shoulder. “Prick.”

Roaring with laughter, Ron settled back into the pillows to read the latest predictions for the 1998 Quidditch World Cup.

•••

There was nothing in the official handbook about it, but Hermione imagined that Professor McGonagall would frown upon her two sixth-year prefects holding hands as they patrolled the castle. Or stealing kisses as they rounded corners, one eye open to watch out for Filch or Mrs. Norris. Or ducking into an empty classroom for a full-on snog. And yet here she was, sitting on a dusty desk in a random classroom on the fourth floor, her calves wrapped around the back of Ron’s thighs, kissing him like her very life depended on it. He had one hand planted on her thigh, the other sunk into the curly mess of her hair, his narrow hips cradled between her knees.

A thump from elsewhere in the castle broke them apart. “We should probably see what that was,” said Hermione ruefully, a hand on his chest to nudge him away.

“Prob’ly just Peeves,” Ron muttered, ducking his head to lock their lips together again. 

“We still have to finish rounds.”

“We will.” Another kiss. “In a minute.”

And then he was kissing her again, each deeper and more dizzying than the last, and she supposed that he was right, it probably was just Peeves causing a racket, and there was nothing that a lowly prefect could do about that, anyway… a soft moan curling out of the back of her throat, she reached up and wound her arms around his neck, fingers plunging into his silky-soft hair, the scent of it wafting to her nose. He was like a drug, there was simply not enough of him, even as she tugged him closer, let his tongue slide into her mouth and brush against hers. All week she had been forced to content herself with the relatively chaste kisses that they could manage as he finished his recovery in the hospital wing. Over the weekend, when Harry and the blunt force head trauma he had sustained as the result of a truly disastrous Quidditch match had been there too, she had been forced to exercise an almost inhuman amount of restraint. Now that Madam Pomfrey had given him a clean bill of health, she had to take advantage.

Ron pulled back, his lips slightly swollen. “You’re right,” he said, though he planted another quick kiss on her mouth. “Sooner we do the rounds, sooner we’re done.”

Hermione agreed, though she would have happily stayed in that classroom all night with him, and after smoothing their rumpled clothing, they stepped out into the corridor again. The source of the thud they’d heard minutes ago was nowhere to be seen, and the castle had returned to its usual state of post-curfew calm. Ron was walking a little more quickly than usual, but he chattered cheerfully to Hermione as they made their obligatory peeks into empty classrooms and broom closets, recounting some of the more unbelievable moments of that weekend’s Quidditch match (“how did that lout end up with a Beater’s bat in his hands to begin with?”) and speculating about the contents of the next day’s practical exam in Charms. When finally they reached the seventh floor again, Hermione stepped in the direction of the Fat Lady’s portrait only to find that Ron’s large hand had closed softly around her wrist.

“Come with me for a bit.”

She did not require convincing, and followed him back down the corridor until they stood before the blank expanse of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Ron dropped her hand, paced three times before it, and a small wooden door appeared in the otherwise-solid stone wall. 

“What is this?” asked Hermione, only to find his hand on the small of her back, guiding her to the door.

“Just come with me,” he said again, a gentle smile on his lips as he led her inside. “I think you might like it. I hope.”

“Ron, what-“ 

The words died on her lips. The door had opened up to a perfect replica of the apple orchard behind the Burrow, right down to the tiny flower buds dotting the bare branches of the trees and the overgrown grass. The sky was a flawless velvety black, studded with sparkling stars.

As she gazed around, awestruck, Ron hurried over to the nearest tree. 

“Please let it be here,” he was saying anxiously to himself, “please, please still be here - yes!” 

He raised two fists in victory and plucked a wicker basket out of the grass. 

“Ron,” said Hermione, trodding through the grass towards him, “what is all this?”

“I just-“ He turned around, a knit blanket now thrown over one forearm. “I meant it, that day, when I said I wanted to go on a date with you, and you’re right, we can’t go into Hogsmeade. So I started thinking of places inside the castle we go, and…” He rubbed his fingertips over his jaw. “This seemed like the best choice.”

Speechless, Hermione stepped through the grass until she was close enough to wind her arms tightly around his middle. 

“It’s nothing too exciting,” added Ron as he hugged her back. “Just a little picnic - and since we’ve already had dinner, it’s really just a pudding picnic.”

“Thank you,” Hermione managed to choke out. She stood on tiptoe to peck his lips. “This is really sweet.”

“It’s really not much-“

“Yes,” said Hermione. “It really is.”

With one last gentle squeeze around her waist, Ron released her and shook out the blanket, draping it over the grass. The mere sliver of a moon in the sky was hardly enough light to see by, so Hermione conjured a few glass jars to contain glowing bluebell flames. As they settled down with the basket, Hermione couldn’t stop herself leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek.

“All right, are you ready for this?” asked Ron, flipping open the lid of the basket.

“What do I need to be ready for?”

Even by the flickering light of the bluebell flames,  mischief glinted in Ron’s eyes as he reached into the basket and extracted an enormous tub of chocolate ice cream.

“They ran out of strawberry,” Ron explained as he set a pair of spoons on the blanket, “and Dobby was happy to make more but I reckoned you wouldn’t want him to go to the trouble, so-“

“You were right,” she agreed, curious as he dove a hand into the basket again, “but why wouldn’t I be-“

And then she heard it. The telltale rattling of countless tiny pellets of colored sugar.

“Oh, no, no,” said Hermione as he laughingly attempted to hand her the jar, pushing his arm away, “those are all for you.”

“Thought you might have changed your mind on them.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well…” He held out a spoon to her, which she took, and dug his own into the ice cream. “‘Cause you changed your mind about snogging me, for one-“

“No, I didn’t,” she said, her cheeks growing hot at the thought of what she was about to confess. “I’ve wanted to do that - I’ve wanted this - for a really long time.”

“Me too,” he replied softly. 

“So then-“ Hermione stopped herself, shaking her head, and reached for the jar of hundreds-and-thousands. “Here, don’t you need these?”

He didn’t take them. “No, what?”

With a dismissive little half-shrug, Hermione adjusted herself so that she sat closer to him, and let the jar fall onto the blanket. 

The tip of his pointer finger poked into her leg. “No, seriously, what?”

“I don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Oh, come on,” he insisted, and she could see she was making him nervous. “You know that’s never happened to you before.”

She just didn’t want to ruin it. She didn’t want to ruin what was undeniably the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her, or puncture the blissful bubble that had existed around them for the past eight days. 

But she also couldn’t hold back.

“I just wondered,” she said, eyes downcast, fingers fiddling with a loose thread in the blanket, “after we kissed in the common room, in November, why you - I mean, you just completely closed yourself off to me, I thought you regretted it.”

“Oh.” Ron let his spoon drop into the tub of ice cream and smoothed his palms down his thighs. “Well. It wasn’t about you at all.”

“What? Then what was it about?”

Ron looked as though he would rather face an Acromantula than have this conversation.

“Just me being stupid, I promise.” He reached out and squeezed her hand lightly with his. “It’s nothing you did.”

“But then what was it? If it wasn’t because of me, then I don’t know - you wouldn’t even talk to me, and I don’t know how you went from kissing me to not even talking to me-“ A new and terrifying thought flashed through her mind. “Is that going to happen again?”

“No,” he said, eyes wide and frantic, “no, no, no, never - it was just me being an idiot, really.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

Splotches of red popped up on his cheeks; she had only ever seen him look this way before Quidditch matches, which wasn’t reassuring. 

“I just thought I wasn’t good enough for you, all right?” he said finally, gaze shifting down to the blanket. “I reckoned you’d think it was a mistake, and then what you said after the Quidditch match was basically proof of that, and so-“

“What did the match have anything to do with us?”

He let out a sharp breath. “‘Cause you came into the changing room, all ready to yell at me ‘cause you thought I’d taken the Felix-“

“So did you!”

“But it just made me think that you thought I couldn’t do anything right without a lucky potion-“

“Ron, we all thought Harry put it in your drink, he tricked everyone-“

“I know, but I really hoped that you’d think I could do it on my own, but then you didn’t and it was like, of course I’m never going to measure up to - to Viktor Krum-“

“ _ Viktor Krum _ ?” Hermione repeated, dumbfounded. “What does he have to do with anything?”

Ron tipped his face up toward the sky, his features pinching together. “It’s really stupid-“

“Can you stop saying that, please?”

“But it is! ‘Sides, I don’t care about it, really-“

“Ron,” she blurted out, voice catching in her throat, “please just talk to me.” 

He let out another breath, this one slow and shuddering. “Basically… I got in a fight with Ginny and she told me that you snogged Krum.”

Hermione tilted her head to the side, both mortified and confused. “Why would she tell you that? That’s not her business to tell-“

“I know, and it’s really - it’s not about that. But all I could think was how there was no way anyone goes from someone like him to someone like me.”

“So you stopped talking to me because I kissed Viktor Krum two years ago?”

“No!” he shook his head, panicked. “No, it’s not that - it was just another thing that made me think you’d never want - y’know, this. Me.”

What had once been a pleasantly cool Devonshire breeze had now turned chilly; Ron’s words hung in the air between them. 

“All right,” said Hermione at last, when she could no longer tolerate the heavy, pulsing silence. “Well… we should probably go back.”

“Yeah, it’s bloody freezing out here,” mumbled Ron. “Dunno what I was thinking.”

He stood, brushing off his hands on the sides of his thighs, and held out a hand to pull Hermione up as well. The second she was on her feet, though, he let her fingers slip slowly out of his.

They stepped through the little door, back into the corridor, and headed in the direction of Gryffindor tower. The energy had shifted between them; the unbridled delirious joy of their past week of snogging and obsession had vanished as quickly as it had come. Somewhere in her mind, she had known it couldn’t be this way forever. The unspoken things between them would have to be said eventually. Just as they could no longer hold their true feelings for each other inside, they also couldn’t ignore everything else that had transpired between them. 

“You go ahead,” said Hermione just as they approached the Fat Lady’s portrait. “I have something I need to do.”

Ron muttered his acknowledgment as Hermione took off down the hall again, back to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.


	16. The One With All The Honesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the last chapter… before the epilogue, which is where I will almost certainly become unbearably sappy in the author’s note. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

For a Monday night, the Gryffindor common room was oddly busy. Students sat huddled around small tables, stacks of books between them, or lounged draped across furniture and in front of the hearth. Ron vaguely registered Harry and Ginny among them - they had a Quidditch playbook open and were talking fast - but he didn’t feel compelled to join in any of it. Instead, he simply dragged himself up to his room.

It was naive, but he had sort of hoped that he would never have to reveal to her just how riddled with insecurity he had been back in the fall. Lying in the hospital bed, with her hand in his, their words calm and steady and honest, had felt like a fresh start. He didn’t care about anything that happened before. He just wanted to start over with her. 

But then, he’d always believed that not telling the whole truth was just another form of lying, and he couldn’t go on like that. Not with Hermione.

His dorm room was empty, so he changed into his pajamas and fell onto the bed on his back. He wasn’t going to wallow. He wasn’t going to lose himself in a spiral of anxiety or self-doubt, not this time. Instead, he would figure out a way to fix it. 

Apologizing seemed like a good start. His mum always said that there was no sense apologizing if you were only sorry you got caught, but it wasn’t the case. He’d made mistakes last fall, they both had, and he never wanted that to happen again. And that was the whole point of apologizing, wasn’t it? To ask for forgiveness and promise to do better next time?

That was what he would do. He would go to her tomorrow - and he would make sure to set his alarm and everything, he wasn’t going to screw it up this time - and he would just apologize to her. Whatever happened after that, at least he knew that there was nothing more he could have done.

But then… why was he waiting? Why was he going to let an entire night pass with this hanging between them? That could only make it worse - no, he needed to see her now. And just as he was swinging his legs over the side of his bed with the intention of changing into something slightly more respectable than third-hand pajamas, the door to the dorm swung open and there she stood.

“Hi.” She took a tentative step into the room. 

“Hey.”

“After I saw you at the Christmas party with Lavender,” she said quietly, shifting her weight from foot to foot, “I went back to my room and I cried.”

“Hermione-“

“No, listen.” Her voice remained low, calm. “I understand why you were jealous, because I get jealous too.”

“I was just about to come and find you,” said Ron, standing up as she continued across the room. “I really want to talk about it all.”

“I do too,” she replied, hope in her eyes, “I started thinking about it and I don’t want there to be any - any secrets, or anything - between us.”

“Me either,” said Ron, beckoning to her, “and you have to know, I went to the party with her because - because she asked, really, and I thought it was my only way to make sure McLaggen left you alone.”

Hermione reached him and sat gingerly beside him on the very edge of the bed. “That’s really why you went?”

“Yeah, and - and maybe ‘cause I was sick of feeling like the dirt on the bottom of someone’s shoe all the time,” he confessed, in the new spirit of honesty. 

“Right, about that, Ron…” She drew a deep breath. “I’m really sorry about what happened at the match.”

“S’alright,” he shrugged. “You said before, you didn’t know.”

“I know. But after everything that happened that week, I was just so hurt, I didn’t want to be happy for you.” Her eyes were cast down to her shoes. “But I’m just really sorry about all of it. Everything that happened. That I basically used you for months-“

“You didn’t,” said Ron. “It took two of us, I wanted to do it, and I mean, it was really fun sometimes.”

The hint of a smile graced her lips. “It was.”

“And I’m sorry too.” He reached toward her, smoothing his palm over the back of her hand, and to his great relief she rotated her wrist so that their fingers locked together. “I wish I had just talked to you back then about it, but I didn't think you’d want to hear it.”

“I’m just glad we’ve talked about it now.”

She turned her face toward his, her relief matching his, and touched their lips together, and just as Ron was fully realizing that he was kissing Hermione on his bed, of all places, she jumped up.

“Oh! I forgot!” 

Before Ron could even process it, she had darted out of the room, but reappeared only seconds later, a rather familiar wicker basket in her hands, a sheepish expression on her face.

“I went back to get it,” she explained as she returned to him, “but I left it in the hall, I thought it would be too embarrassing if I brought it in and then found out you wanted to split up or something.”

“You really are barking,” said Ron as he took the basket from her and set it on the bed. “Like I’d ever want to do that.”

A deep flush rose up Hermione’s neck and into her face as she climbed up to sit atop the crimson duvet, the basket between them, facing him. “Well, I just - I really am glad we talked.”

“Yeah, me too.” Ron leaned across the basket and lightly kissed her. “But let’s not let the ice cream melt.”

“Merlin forbid,” laughed Hermione, fishing their two spoons out of the basket. “And you want these too, right?”

She held the jar of hundreds-and-thousands out to him, shaking it playfully.

“You know I only keep bringing those up because I like getting you all riled up over it, don’t you?” Ron asked with a grin. “I got them one time and you haven’t been able to forget it.”

“Well, I mean, they  _ are  _ rather pointless, aren’t they?” she began, prying the lid off the tub of ice cream. “They just get stuck in your teeth, it’s how you end up with cavities, really, and-“ She broke off, finally noticing how Ron’s grin had widened as she spoke. “All right, I see what you mean.”

He couldn’t stop himself; he planted a palm on the bed between them and kissed her again, deeper this time. She lifted a cool palm to his face, her thumb at his cheek, fingers slipping into his hair, and he thought he might burst with the intensity of what he felt for her; it was more, better, than he had ever thought possible.

“The ice cream,” Hermione breathed, pulling back. “It really will melt.”

“Sod it,” muttered Ron, kissing the corner of her mouth. “That’s what magic is for.”

She moved to kiss him again, humming against his mouth, and the tub of ice cream went forgotten.

•••

“Help me revise,” Ron had said as they’d left Transfiguration with the news of an upcoming exam fresh in their minds, and Hermione was not naive. She knew studying meant a whole lot of Ron distracting her and very little actual revision, but if they even had a book open in their vicinity, Hermione was willing to bend her definition just a little bit. Just for him. 

But she was at least going to make the effort. While he went off to Quidditch practice with Harry and the rest of the team following dinner, Hermione headed to the library, pulling book after book on Transfiguration theory from the shelves. By the time she was satisfied with her haul, her bookbag was stuffed and she still had to carry a small stack in her arms back to Gryffindor tower. The common room was busy, buzzing with energy, the sort of commotion that allowed Hermione to slip up the staircase to the boys’ dormitory undetected. Pushing open the door to the sixth years’ room, she found Ron kneeling in front of his trunk, rummaging through the disarray inside.

“Are you ready?” she called to him as she walked into the room, and at the sound of her voice he stood and spun to face her.

“Ready for what - blimey,” he exclaimed, “what’ve you got all that for?”

“For Transfiguration,” she said as he hurried over to relieve her of the books. “I found one that has a whole history of the advancements that have been made in interspecies spellwork, which I don’t suppose will be on the exam, but it never hurts to know the origins of...” She trailed off at the befuddled expression on his face. “What?”

“Nothing,” he assured her, cracking a smile and leaning down to drop a light kiss on her forehead. “Nothing at all. C’mon, let’s do this.”

He dropped the armful of books unceremoniously onto his bed and then climbed up onto it, his back against the headboard. Hermione hadn’t considered that they would stay in his dorm, but as they were alone, it did sound quite a lot nicer than the library with Madam Pince lurking about, so she joined him. The beds in all the dormitories were narrow, as if they had been designed specifically to accommodate eleven-year-old children, and it was all the more excuse to snuggle right up against him. He lifted one arm and wrapped it around her so that she could easily tuck herself into the crook of his shoulder.

“So where’re we starting?” asked Ron softly.

Hermione leaned forward just enough to grab  _ Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6 _ from her sizable collection and pull it onto her lap. With her knees bent, she could prop the book against her thighs so they could both easily read it.

“We’re expected to know all of the spell variations for the different types of interspecies transfiguration,” said Hermione as she opened the book to a chapter near the back. “The incantation changes depending on a few different factors - mostly if you’re changing biological class or not.”

“Right.” 

He smelled sweet, like sweat combined with crisp, fresh spring air, and he was so close that she could feel his soft breath on her cheek. No sooner had she begun to turn her face toward him than his lips landed on the little patch of skin just in front of her ear, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. She moved so that her lips caught his, the kiss soft and gentle and achingly slow.

_ I don’t want to go _ , Hermione found herself thinking as their mouths lingered together. She knew the moment could not last: one of his dormmates was bound to barge in eventually and demolish the fragile moment, and even if they didn’t, she couldn’t escape with him forever. The world kept turning, even when she didn’t want it to.

“You said you wanted to revise,” she reminded him, hating herself a little bit for dragging them back to reality.

“I don’t, really, but I should,” he replied, heaving a sigh and sitting up a bit straighter. “And you make it a lot better.” The smile on his face was loose and lazy as he moved to place another kiss on her lips. “I just reckon - I don’t know, I probably won’t get accepted, but since I’m in all the courses I need for the Auror program, I reckon I should keep my marks up just in case.”

“You have a very good chance, actually,” said Hermione. “You had good OWL results-“

“I didn’t have any actual Outstandings-“

“But you got Es in all the subjects that matter,” she reminded him. “And you’ve had a bit of real life experience too.”

“Right,” said Ron with a wince. “I don’t want to get my hopes up about it, but I should at least try for it, right?”

“You should,” said Hermione firmly. “Which means we need to revise.”

“You’re right.” The arm of his that draped over her shoulders bent at the elbow, fingers pressing against her hair as he kissed her forehead again; she could really get used to this new habit of his. “Let’s do this.”

But he had made it impossible to concentrate. The words on the page were rendered meaningless by the idle stroking of his fingertips over her hair and the steady rise and fall of his chest with every breath. For all that the logical side of her wanted him to revise, the greater part of her wanted to curl up in his warm, solid embrace and let all thoughts that were not of him, of his hands and arms and chest, slip easily out of her mind. 

He turned a page in the book and pressed a kiss to the side of her head. At the contact, Hermione straightened out her legs a bit, extending them over Ron’s so that they tangled together. She had half a mind to crawl into his lap entirely, but it wasn’t lost on her that as alone as they felt, something - or someone - would inevitably come along and steal the moment from them. 

Even so, she turned toward him and brushed their lips together, only to find him deepening the kiss. He was so all-consuming, so passionate; every time he kissed her, it was so clear that he took it seriously. That he took  _ them _ seriously.

“New plan,” he mumbled against her mouth, lips bumping into hers with each word. “Forget the Auror thing.”

“Oh?”

He brushed a lock of hair away from her face as the textbook between them fell closed, forgotten.

“Yeah. Instead-“ He kissed her again- “I reckon you and I should just run off somewhere, y’know, forget everyone else.”

“Live off the land?” she played along.

“Mmhmm,” he nodded, eyes heavy-lidded as he tipped his face down to kiss her, softly, almost reverently. “Just you and me.”

It didn’t matter that he was joking; her heart still swelled at his words. He was imagining a future with her, and it all came into sharp focus in her overactive mind: Ron in scarlet Auror robes, tall and broad-shouldered, coming home to her in their shared flat and sharing in the daily details of her own endeavors. She saw it all so clearly, and she wanted it desperately.

But in the meantime, they had an exam to worry about.

“Don’t tempt me,” she told him ruefully, pulling the book onto her lap and opening it up again. 

•••

The first truly warm day of spring was always the best, to Ron. It never lasted, of course; he knew better than to rely on the weather in Britain being anything but unpredictable, but one could not help but be in a good mood when the sun shone so brightly and the wintry chill had gone. It was this, along with the incredibly warm welcome that he had received upon his triumphant return to the Quidditch team, that gave him the boost needed for a truly successful practice: not even Ginny could get the Quaffle by him.

Hermione sitting in the stands helped too.

Helped a lot, actually. Just to know, unlike on past occasions, that she was there truly because she wanted to be, and she wanted to watch and support him and cheer him on. And to know that once practice concluded, they could sneak behind the greenhouses to snog or steal away to the far reaches of the castle grounds to escape the rest of the world. He could do things like slip her notes in the middle of Potions or bring her a biscuit when she inevitably spent too much time revising in the library without having to worry about what she would think, because he wanted her to know. He wanted to show her, constantly, how much she meant to him.

“Really great work, everyone,” said Harry from his Firebolt as the team hovered, several feet above the ground, in a post-practice huddle. “Next practice’ll be Saturday at nine, see you all then.”

Under the implicit understanding that they were dismissed, the team dispersed, breaking into chattering pairs on their way to the changing rooms. Glancing back over his shoulder, Ron saw Hermione rise from her seat in the stands and start down the stairs, and made a mental note to find her in the library once he had showered and dressed. For reasons well beyond his comprehension, she had already begun revision for final exams.

The unexpected burst of summer-like heat meant that Ron’s jumper was soaked in sweat, so that when he went to pull over his head, it clung stubbornly to the thin white t-shirt that he wore underneath. Somehow his head had gotten stuck in the neck hole, and as he was still struggling with it, he couldn’t see who Ginny was talking to when he heard her say, “you know you’re not actually allowed in here, right?”

“I know,” came Hermione’s bright voice, and Ron whirled around, almost tripping over his own feet. “Are you all right, Ron?”

With a mighty effort, he wrenched the jumper over his head and offered Hermione a wide smile, which she instantly returned.

“What’re you doing in here?” he asked as she approached, hugging her to him with one arm. “Reckoned you’d be back in the library.”

“I can spare a few minutes,” she replied. “Anyway, I’ve got something for you.”

Across the changing room, Harry made a sound of repulsion. “Is this our cue to leave?”

Ignoring this, Ron looked inquisitively down at Hermione. “Whaddya mean, you’ve got something for me?”

“I mean exactly what I said.” Hermione cast a dirty look over her shoulder at Harry, who was still chuckling with Ginny. “Are you two about done?”

At this, Harry was rendered indignant. “You’re the one who barged in here-“

“Oh, it’s fine,” interjected Ginny, “we’ll go.” 

Shouldering her broom, she beckoned to Harry, and the pair of them left the changing room together.

Now that they were alone, Ron took the opportunity to duck his head and drop a kiss on Hermione’s lips. She snuggled further into his side, her face near his collarbone.

“You’re all sweaty,” she remarked with something like relish in her tone.

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Not at all.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “But I really do have something for you, so come here.”

She pulled him to sit beside her on one of the long benches spanning the room and drew a rectangular white box from inside her bag.

“What’s this for?” asked Ron, taking the box onto his lap. “I told you, I don’t want any birthday gifts-“

“It’s not. I’ll explain it once you open it.”

He lifted the lid to find what appeared to be a bright red, collared shirt. On one side was a white crest bearing the image of a rather odd-looking bird and the words  _ Liverpool Football Club _ .

“Liverpool,” he said, slowly, as the memory forced its way to the front of his mind. “My favorite Muggle team?”

“Yes,” she said, beaming at him. “It’s called a kit. It’s what the Muggle players wear during a match - it’s just a shirt, really.”

“Where’d you get this?”

“Erm…” Hermione’s two front teeth sank into her lower lip. “My mum and dad. This was… this was their Christmas gift to you.”

Ron merely lifted an eyebrow. “Christmas?”

“I never told them that we had a - a pretend breakup, or whatever it was,” Hermione began. “So when I went home for Christmas break, they gave this to me, to give to you. My dad was so excited about it, he thought you’d really like it.”

Her face had gone a bit pale. Instinctively, Ron inched closer to her, curving an arm around the small of her back.

“They even wanted to have you over, but I - I lied.” Deep shame washed over her features. “I said your family had gone to Romania to visit Charlie, I just couldn’t bring himself to tell them the truth. I know it’s terrible, but the thing is… I want to be honest with them. I’m going to tell them everything.”

“Everything,” Ron repeated. The Muggle clothing on his lap suddenly seemed so insignificant. “As in, everything? All the stuff about You-Know-Who?”

Solemn, she nodded. “They deserve to know. They’ve sent me off into this world, they should at least know what’s going on.”

“And what if…” He almost didn’t want to speak his fear aloud. “What if you tell them, and they - they don’t want to let you come back?”

“I’m an adult here - and I’ll be eighteen in September - so it’s not their choice to make. But I’m also…” She looked up at him, her eyes big and bright and earnest. “I’m their only daughter, and I don’t want to shut them out of my life like I have been doing. It’s not right.”

Without the right words - it was like he could never find them in the times he really needed them - he simply hugged her closer, touching his lips to her temple, hoping that his actions could say what he couldn’t. She laid her head on his shoulder, and stray curls of her hair tickled his chin.

“So,” he said softly, moving to kiss her forehead, “do they think I’m an arsehole, then?”

She picked up her head. “What?”

“They sent me a gift three months ago and I never even sent them a letter to thank them, won’t they think that’s kind of rude?” 

Hermione cracked a smile, and just like that, the tension broke. “It’ll be all right. They’ll understand once I explain.”

“All right, ‘cause now that I’m  _ actually _ your boyfriend-“ He wondered briefly if those words would ever fail to give him a giddy thrill- “I want to stay in their good graces.”

“Oh, you are.” She jumped up and grabbed the shirt out of its box, holding it up in front of her. “Try it on, I want to be sure it fits you.”

Ron stood and took the shirt from her, tugging it over his head and finding that it did indeed fit quite comfortably. 

“It’s perfect!” Hermione exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s brilliant,” he said. “My dad’s going to love it too.”

“Don’t let him steal it.”

Ron bent and kissed her, smiling against her lips. “Thank you.” Another kiss, then he looked down again at his new attire. “What’s Carlsberg?”

“A type of Muggle beer.” 

Her hands slipped into his, their fingers intertwining as though designed to do so.

“Why’s it on the - you said they call it a kit?”

“Yes,” said Hermione, still smiling up at him. “The company basically pays to have their logo there, it’s good exposure.”

“I just want to make sure I know about these things,” Ron explained, “for the next time I’ve got to play Ron the Muggle.”

“I thought you liked being Ron the Muggle.”

“I did! He was like a - I dunno, like a better version of me somehow.”

“Well,” she said, “I happen to like the version of you that I have right now.”

Before he could react, she was kissing him again, over and over, using his hands to tug him down to her level, and he was so consumed by her that he hardly noticed the sound of the door to the showers opening and closing. The pointed clearing of a throat, however, broke them apart.

Still holding Hermione’s hands, Ron turned his head to see Dean, hair still damp, looking quizzically at them.

“So…” Dean gave the room a quick scan. “Has Ginny left, then?”

“Er, yeah,” replied Ron.

“Oh, I thought she was waiting for me,” said Dean, crestfallen. Briefly Ron reflected on the way Ginny had flounced out of the changing room with Harry, and thought that she had likely not given Dean even a passing thought. “Right, well, erm - I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He walked past them, broom on his shoulder, then spun on his heel. “Is that… Liverpool?” he asked incredulously. “Since when do you support Liverpool? No, no, wait - since when do you support  _ football _ ?”

Hermione burst out laughing, which only served to perplex Dean even more.

“It’s a long story,” said Ron.

•••

Ron didn’t quite know why he was so nervous. He, after all, was not the one currently Apparating across Hogsmeade, from Dervish and Bange’s to the train station to the empty storefront that used to be Zonko’s and back to the main road leading up to Hogwarts. He was not the one that had to land precisely inside of a rather small hoop at each station to be evaluated by a Ministry examiner, who would then relay success (or failure) via enchanted parchment back to their instructor. That was Hermione, at the moment, and undoubtedly she had already aced it - she had probably found a way to earn extra credit somehow - and surely she would skip back to the castle, Apparition license in hand. 

Maybe it was because he had to watch everyone else go first. With his last name being Weasley, only Blaise Zabini came after him in the queue, and  _ he _ looked so utterly bored with the whole production that it somehow made Ron feel worse, like he shouldn’t be so worked up in the first place. 

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Hermione had said as they had walked into Hogsmeade behind their classmates. “I’ve been reading up on it-“

“Naturally-“

“And about half of people don’t pass the first time, it’s not uncommon at all.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” he’d told her. 

“Well,” she had continued on, “in the event that we don’t pass-“

“You mean that I don’t pass?”

“We’ll just take the test with Harry in July. We don’t really need our licenses before then, anyway, it isn’t as if we can Apparate in and out of the castle…”

The now-familiar crack of Apparition split the air, and Hermione materialized in a whirlwind of bushy hair inside the wooden hoop on the pavement.

“Oh, excellent work, Miss Granger, really well done!” gushed Wilkie Twycross, their instructor, clasping his hands in front of himself with joy. “Flawless, as usual.”

_ Mate, _ thought Ron, unable to suppress his own sarcasm even in this time of great stress,  _ she’s  _ my _ girlfriend, not yours. _

“Yes, Miss Granger, you’ve passed with flying colors,” said Twycross, “so you can head over to Mr. Flimby there for your license.”

As Daphne Greengrass stepped up to begin her own exam, Hermione flitted excitedly over to the registration table. Even with his own nerves threatening to throw him off-course, Ron could not help smiling as he watched her. She was far enough away that he couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he could tell that she was chattering excitedly away to poor Mr. Flimby, who nodded vaguely along as he filled out her paperwork. 

“Look,” she said happily, bounding over to him with a slip of very official-looking parchment in her hands, bearing a stamp and a seal and important phrases like  _ by decree of the Ministry of Magic.  _ “I really passed!”

“I knew you would,” said Ron proudly, and were they not among so many people, he’d have kissed her.

“And you will too,” she said firmly. “Just remember - destination, determination, and deliberation…”

But he stopped listening: Sally-Anne Perks had Apparated just to the left of the wooden hoop, and was now tearfully requesting a do-over from Twycross. 

“I’m sorry, dear,” said Twycross gently. “You may retake the test on the twenty-ninth of July.”

Next went the Patils: Padma passed, Parvati did not. Ron’s stomach began to churn. Was he really supposed to Apparate four times in a row? Was that even healthy? Had anyone evaluated the exam for any sort of safety standards? What if one of them was Splinched, and not in the funny way, but in the dangerous, painful, chunks-of-raw-flesh-torn-away sort of way? He had a decent broom now; did he even need to Apparate at all?

“Ronald Weasley,” said Twycross, snapping him out of a vision in which he Splinched himself clear in half, “are you ready?”

Hermione gave his upper arm a reassuring little squeeze as he stepped up to the examination hoop. Over at the registration table, Sophie Roper was gleefully accepting her license.

“Now, Mr. Weasley,” Twycross said, “your course is as follows…” He gave the same speech that Ron had heard him give to everyone else: to wait until the examiner at each station gave him permission before proceeding to the next, that he had to arrive within the bounds of the hoop at all four stops in order to pass. “You may start whenever you’re ready.”

He’d gotten the hang of the little spin he had to do to Apparate, finally, and he landed neatly inside the hoop outside of Dervish and Bange’s. The examiner gave him a disinterested jerk of the head and checked something off on his board.

“Go on, then,” he said. “Southern end of the rail station.”

Swallowing heavily, Ron shut his eyes and turned on the spot again. A split second later, he stood in front of a smiling middle-aged witch, who gave him an encouraging smile as she wrote.

“Very nicely done,” she chirped. “Off to the joke shop, then, luv.”

Though he was already a bit nauseated (this definitely wasn’t healthy), Ron took a deep breath and focused hard on the boarded-up windows of the vacant shop formerly known as Zonko’s. The examiner there looked him appraisingly up and down, marked something down on his clipboard, and then gave a terse nod. 

“Go on.”

Ron reappeared back where he had started, somewhat off to the right but still definitely inside the hoop, and relief flooded his veins. He’d done it. And all his limbs were still connected to his body.

“Yes, yes, very good, Mr. Weasley,” said Twycross, consulting his own clipboard. “All seems to be in order - oh, now, wait a moment.” He looked down at his clipboard, then up at Ron, then down at the clipboard again. “Yes, quite right he is. Unfortunately, Mr. Weasley, you’ve left half an eyebrow behind at the last station.”

His stomach dropped. “Half an eyebrow?!”

“As that is considered Splinching, the law states that I cannot pass you today. Better luck in July, yes?” Twycross peered around Ron to speak to the group of students. “Blaise Zabini?”

Shellshocked, and now faintly aware of a slight tickling sensation above his left eye, Ron stepped out of the hoop and walked slowly back toward his classmates, where the mood was part-elation, part-disappointment. Hermione, in conversation with Susan Bones, caught his eye, and he gave a tiny shake of his head.

She was in front of him in an instant. “What happened?” she asked, and her alarm somehow served to make it feel worse. “You were inside of the hoop, I saw you.” Wordlessly Ron pointed to his eyebrow. “What am I looking at?”

“Part of it’s missing, innit?” Ron guided her to fall into step with the rest of the group as they started back up the path to the castle. “I left it at Zonko’s.”

“Your  _ eyebrow _ ?”

“My fucking eyebrow.”

“That seems rather extreme, it’s hardly anything, I don’t even know how they were able to tell - but don’t worry,” she said bracingly, “you’ll just take it again with Harry over the summer and it’ll be fine then, I mean - I mean, yes, I’ve got mine but it’s not like I can go Apparating here and there and everywhere, I can’t even really use it for two months, so…”

Her steady stream of platitudes continued the entire walk back to the castle, and as the group dispersed to return to their various house common rooms, and as they trod the familiar route back to the Fat Lady’s portrait.

And even though the recollection of his moment of failure filled him with dismay and, somehow, embarrassment, her words did help. She was so indignant on his behalf and so convinced of the injustice that it was strangely comforting, like proof he wasn’t insane for feeling upset over it.

They climbed into the common room, where Harry immediately greeted them. He too was appropriately appalled by the circumstances of Ron’s failure, and after a brief discussion of the inequity of it all, they settled down near the fire to while away the time before dinner. Ron took the corner of the sofa, Hermione leaning subtly against his side, her fingers resting on his thigh.

“So you’re going to do it tonight, then, right?” she asked Harry, and Ron knew they’d circled back around to the topic of the day: Harry’s upcoming use of the Felix Felicis.

“Suppose I’d better,” replied Harry.

“Well, you really shouldn’t wait any longer,” she said, turning her head to appeal to Ron. “Right? Dumbledore said they can’t do anything more without this memory.”

Ron couldn’t help but agree as he wrapped an arm around Hermione’s shoulder, pulling her tighter against him. As preoccupied as he had been all year with trivial things - Quidditch and pretend relationships and Christmas parties thrown by pretentious professors - the simple fact remained that darkness loomed over them, every single day. The newspapers were full of reports of deaths and disappearances, and they still didn’t know who had spiked the mead that almost killed him, or who had cursed Katie Bell. Voldemort grew in power by the day.

An Apparition license, or lack thereof, seemed a very silly thing in comparison.

“Well,” said Harry when they’d exhausted the subject, checking his watch, “dinner?”

“Definitely,” replied Ron. “All that Apparating around for no reason really works up an appetite, y’know?”

“I just need to run up to my room,” said Hermione, sitting up straight. “I have a book to return to the library, I want to stop along the way.”

“Go on, then, we’ll wait for you.” 

Hermione turned to smile at him - she was always doing that lately - and the bright, shining thought that he was the thing making her happy made him tip forward and kiss her quickly on the lips. 

As she scurried up the girls’ staircase, Ron caught sight of a rather pensive expression on Harry’s face, as though he was racking the depths of his brain.

“Sorry,” said Ron, discreetly wiping his bottom lip with the knuckle of his thumb. “Is that weird for you?”

“No,” Harry responded thoughtfully, though he know looked like he was on the verge of solving a mystery. “Just… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you kiss her before.”

There was a very odd swooping sensation in Ron’s stomach. “Sure you have.”

“No…” Harry slowly shook his head. “‘Cause I remember thinking it was nice, for a while, that you two never like, full-on snogged while I was around. You were always really touchy-feely but you never actually… kissed.”

“Oh. Right. About that-“

Just as Ron was hoping she would, Hermione reappeared at the foot of the stairs carrying a leather-bound book entitled  _ Elemental Transfiguration: A Comprehensive Guide. _

“Hermione,” Ron said as she bounded over to him. “I think it’s time we tell him. About last year.”

“You are both  _ so  _ strange,” Harry lamented, looking back and forth between the two of them. “What are you on about?”

“He says he’s never seen us kiss before,” Ron explained to Hermione, rising from the sofa. 

“Well, you wouldn’t have done,” said Hermione matter-of-factly as they headed toward the portrait hole. “And there’s a reason for that…”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Epilogue will be along in the next few days… but I would love to hear what you think before then!


	17. Epilogue: The One Where They’re At A Wedding... Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all. More notes at the end.
> 
> (Oh, also, this contains a couple itty bitty lines of dialogue from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows... and I take no credit for them.)

“He’s the father of a friend of ours,” said Ron tersely. He stuck his hand out toward Hermione, and his flash of irritation dissipated. “Come and dance.”

Placing her hand in his, Hermione allowed him to pull her to her feet, and together they walked to the dance floor. As they went, he overheard Viktor say to a disguised Harry, “ahh, are they together now?”

“Er - yeah,” said Harry, though his voice was growing quieter as they joined the growing throng of partygoers on the dance floor. “Have been for a bit, actually.”

It was an odd juxtaposition, the revelry and carefree vibe of the wedding paired with the ever-present threat of war hanging over them. Across the tent, Mrs. Weasley was beside herself with excitement, speaking animatedly to Nymphadora Tonks, while George leaned against one of the bars, a rocks glass of liquor in his hand as he chatted up one of Fleur’s Veela cousins. But then there was Harry, Polyjuiced into the likeness of a redheaded Muggle from the village, and Hermione’s tiny beaded bag was serving as a library and closet and first aid kit all at once in case they had to make a quick getaway. They could distract themselves, but they couldn’t really escape it, and it drew nearer every second.

He didn’t know what he was doing, though he suspected Hermione might; dancing lessons were just the sort of thing her parents would have signed her up for, and he thought, with an apologetic pang, that any skill she had was probably wasted on him. With Hermione so close, and the music and the crowd and bloody Krum probably watching them, his limbs felt too long, unwieldy almost, as though he had lost control of where his feet landed. He didn’t know how to move, he wasn’t sure he had any rhythm at all, and he had the feeling that he was making a proper fool of himself, but with Hermione he almost didn’t care. He might not have a thousand more nights to dance with her like this, or even one. This could be his only chance, so he was at least going to try. 

The music slowed, and he pulled her in close, one hand clasped around hers against his chest, the other at the small of her back. He didn’t know any of the proper ballroom dancing moves that she did, so they just sort of swayed, rotating slowly on the spot, but she didn’t seem to mind. In her heeled shoes, she was a bit taller than normal - which was convenient for him, as he didn’t have to duck down quite as much to kiss her - and she rested her chin on his shoulder as a long breath left her body. 

Five months on, he liked to think he could read her pretty well. That even when she didn’t want the rest of the world to know what she was feeling, he still did. There was just something in the way her fingers gripped his shoulder through the fabric of his dress robes, and the way her small frame had gone just slightly rigid, that he couldn’t ignore.

He kissed the side of her head, and she looked up. “You all right?”

She nodded, just one corner of her mouth tilting upward. “Mmhmm.”

“M’not stepping on your feet, am I?”

“No, no.” Her smile grew bolder. “This is nice.”

“But?” he prompted, and she sighed again, laying her cheek on his shoulder.

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You’re not going to ruin anything,” he told her, giving her hand a little squeeze. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

“You’re very sweet.”

“It surprises me too sometimes,” he grinned, pressing a noisy, playful kiss to her cheek. “So what’s up?”

“Harry wants to leave tomorrow.”

Ron nodded his agreement. “Yeah, I know. He actually wanted to leave a week ago, but I wouldn’t let him.”

“I’m just scared,” she confessed, her brown eyes big and dark with worry. “I’m scared for us, and I’m scared for your family, and - and then I think that we shouldn’t be scared, we’re meant to be brave, aren’t we-“

“We’d be barking not to be scared,” Ron interrupted. “But Harry’s got to have a plan, hasn’t he, and being brave isn’t about not being afraid, anyway. It’s just about doing the thing anyway.”

“I suppose.”

“And besides...” He broke off, readying himself for what he was about to say. Because she was right, they were leaving the Burrow tomorrow to go Merlin-knew-where with Harry, and they didn’t know when or if they’d ever be back. He might never get another chance. “You know that no matter what happens, I - I’d do anything for you.”

From the way she looked at him, his meaning was clear. 

“You know I would do the same for you, but Ron...” She stopped in her tracks and kissed him, slowly, her hand moving from his shoulder to the side of his face. It felt like a loss when she pulled away; he wanted to believe that if he wished for it hard enough, he could halt the revolution of the planet and live in this moment forever, but he knew it didn’t work like that. “Whatever’s coming, we can face it as long as we’re together. We got through last year, didn’t we?”

“This is different now, though.”

“I know, but it made us so much stronger than we would have been. We were supposed to go through all that so we could be here. Right?”

“You always are,” he said as he allowed himself a little smile. “I just wish - I mean, you’re right, we did have to go through all of it to be here, but a lot of the time I just wish I hadn’t been so stupid for so long, y’know? I should have just told you how I felt, years ago when I first cottoned onto it. We could have been doing this at the Christmas do-”

“Nobody was dancing at the Christmas do,” she reminded him with a little laugh. 

“Yeah, but we still would’ve been there together.”

“I know what you mean, but it works both ways.” As the band switched songs, they picked up their slow rotation again. “I didn’t say anything either, but - but I’m just glad we’re together now.”

“Me too.” Despite the presence of his parents and his brothers and bloody Aunt Muriel, he kissed her again. 

“We’re going to be fine,” she stated firmly. “We’ve always been a team, and that’s always gotten us through, so we will be fine. We have to be.”

Her conviction was contagious, and so he hugged her closer, letting his chin rest atop her head, and let himself savor the feeling of her petite frame in his arms. Moments like this, just between them, when he had no other obligation but just to love her the best he could, were growing fewer and farther between, and he had to soak this one in.

“As nice as this is,” Hermione piped up after a few moments, “can this be our last song? These shoes are starting to pinch my feet a bit - how women wear these every day, I’ll never understand, it isn’t worth it.”

“Yeah, course,” said Ron. “We probably ought to check in on ole Barny over there, anyway.” He loosened his embrace, hands sliding down her arms to hold hers. “Tell you what, you go over there, and I’ll grab some butterbeers for us, yeah?”

“Perfect.” She gave a little tug on his hands, so he bent and kissed her quickly, smiling at him over her shoulder as she walked off toward their table. Even as he knew he should have been scanning the crowd for a floating tray of drinks, he couldn’t help but watch her, committing to memory every little thing about her - the swing of her hips, the subtle bounce of her sleek curls on her shoulders - just in case he never got another chance. 

But she was right: they were a team. Together, they could get through anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can hardly believe that this is over. For a variety of reasons (which I will not bore you with), 2019 has been a difficult year for me, and this summer was particularly rough. I’m not sure what it says about me that this fic, which started out as a silly way to burst through a severe case of writer’s block, has been one of the few bright spots, but it has. I have loved writing it and even more than that, I have loved sharing it with everyone. The enthusiasm that has been shown for this story has truly blown me away. Of course none of it would have been possible without the support and guidance and help of aloemilk, who is the best cheerleader/beta/human that a person could ask for, along with being a really great friend. <333 Anyway, before I start to sound like I’m accepting an Oscar or something, I just want to say thank you to everyone who has read and followed along with this fic, it means the world to me and I love you for it. Thank you so much.


End file.
